


Shards of Nuance

by sanhedrin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bellamione - Freeform, Black Family Drama (Harry Potter), Black Family-centric (Harry Potter), But first, Discord: Bellamione Cult, Disillusionment, Everyone is grey, Existential Angst, F/F, Femslash, Grey!Hermione, Hogwarts Era, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Purebloods (Harry Potter), Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, again mostly, because everything is better with a slow burn, but mostly canon compatible, except andromeda tonks she can burn however she wants, who am i supposed to love most
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 68,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22559932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanhedrin/pseuds/sanhedrin
Summary: The Second Wizarding War and the final Death Eater trials raise questions and concerns for Hermione that they don’t answer. Her disillusionment is only addressed when Bellatrix Lestrange, and therefore all three of the Black sisters, turn up unannounced in her life a few years later.My favorite things are existential dread, sexual tension, bellamione, and Andromeda Tonks; this story has a healthy dose of all four.Hogwarts and post-Hogwarts eras. Post-hogwarts begins chapter 8. AU but canon compatible.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange & Andromeda Black Tonks, Bellatrix Black Lestrange & Narcissa Black Malfoy & Andromeda Black Tonks, Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Andromeda Black Tonks, Hermione Granger & Andromeda Black Tonks, Hermione Granger & Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 381
Kudos: 468
Collections: 3 stars





	1. The Tragedy has Already Occurred

**Author's Note:**

> hello, world!  
> this work was an amusing thing for me to write, and perhaps it will amuse some of y'all for a short time.  
> please heed the tags and warnings.  
> after chapter 1, author's notes will be moved to the end of each chapter.  
> cheers.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**

Hermione’s greatest secret – and later worst fear and truest love respectively, as it goes – is that she was really quite unremarkable. Born to an upper middle class white British family had its privileges, no doubt, but neither she nor anyone she knew at the time were capable of seeing that. Partly because of the privilege, until that curious letter came in its beautiful handwriting with its curiously moving designs, she had not experienced suffering or joy, except perhaps the overwhelming emptiness she felt after epic movies or books about great heroes. 

The letter came exactly at the minute of her birth on her 11th birthday (9:37 pm, her mother later checked to be sure) in the middle of her first ever slumber party. Jenna, Brittney, and some other girl she’d only met twice before and whose name she soon forgot were camped out on the living room floor, playing the charades of budding young adulthood. For her part, she was valiantly inventing secret crushes for older boys at school, trying to impress the other girls with words and phrases about love and lust that she had only seen in TV shows and certainly not yet felt. Her parents decided to keep the letter for her to open the next day.

She opened it the next morning. Her parents commented on the beautiful handwriting and wondered which relative – probably Aunt Susan – had sent it and what surprise they had up their sleeve. She said nothing, but at the end of a long day of ice cream and shopping with her mother, she cried herself to sleep because with all her pre-teen angst she believed it was the first time in her life she had felt unique – and it was utterly impossible to believe. With her face in the pillow, she failed to see the tiny sparrows fluttering in circles above by the ceiling fan, disintegrating when sleep finally took her.

Her mother did know about the little birds. She had seen them when Hermione was a little girl, chirping above her at her grandfather’s funeral, hovering the day her father accidentally hit a cat on the road and killed it, fluttering nearby as she left Sunday mass one day. Unable to put her finger on the strange squeeze in her heart, she bought a big bird feeder and kept it full of birdseed in the backyard for years. Her daughter seemed to like it and that always gave her a sense of ease when she needed it.

A week later, two women called on the Granger residence. Mr. Granger, ever the gentleman, invited them in and offered tea. Mrs. Granger sat fidgeting with a fraying kitchen rag while Hermione gripped the table leg in front of her wanting but not summoning the courage to make eye contact. The tall woman with a Scottish accent explained she was a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – and had Hermione received the acceptance letter sent to her? All the Grangers nodded. 

The professor – McGonagall, she said – explained the wizarding world in sufficient detail and introduced the young woman sitting next to her. “Dora Tonks, a seventh-year student at Hogwarts.” Dora smiled and reached to shake their hands. 

Later, Hermione’s father would swear to his wife that in that moment the girl’s hair had washed teal and then pink and then back to her initial bright brown. Her mother would roll her eyes and scold him for fantasizing about a girl half his age. “The magic has gone to your head, Jim. Don’t imagine for a minute Hermione got it from you.”

The magic did go to Mr. Granger’s head very quickly. After Professor McGonagall took him and Mrs. Granger on a tour of Hogwarts, they met Hermione and Dora on an impromptu trip to a place called Diagon Alley, and he looked very much as if he had fallen in love all over again. His eyes glittered, sweeping to and fro across the street and the curiously normal shops that lined it. Mrs. Granger, slightly pale in the cheeks, toed the ground with short steps as if she were wearing heels, one of her quintessential tics that everyone but her knew she had. Hermione let Dora escort her through shop after shop: this one for wands, this one just for tea , potions-on-demand, an owlery (“like a post office,” said Dora), bookstore, and a sport (“Quidditch”) shop whose back door opened to a small plaza with two standalone toilets.

“That’s one of the entrances to the Ministry of Magic – it’s the wizarding government. I’m going to work there next year,” said Dora when they reached its front steps.

Hermione was feeling insecure about knowing so little, so she didn’t probe about the toilets and the Ministry entrances. “Doing what?”

“I’ll be an auror. Like a muggle federal investigator. I have an interview next week.”

“Aren’t you a little young for that?”

Dora sniffed and lifted her chin without removing her eyes from Hermione. “Oh, I’ll be a trainee for a bit. But not for damn long. Moody’s been told, or warned I guess. He’s the head auror. Just wait and see.”

“Will I see?”

“If you want.” Dora paused. “You don’t have to do this, Hermione, if you don’t want to. My dad, he’s a muggleborn, grew up not too far from you actually, just a few kilometers. He says it was pretty hard to come from the muggle world into the wizarding world… but he also said it was worth it – mostly because he met my mum. But I don’t think anyone would blame you if you didn’t want to do it.”

Hermione felt like there were some things Dora was not telling her, but she didn’t know how to ask about them. The professor and her parents arrived before she could reply, and too quickly they were back home. Their visitors bundled themselves out the front door. 

A black and yellow scarf hung on the coat rack behind the door when it closed. Hermione grabbed it and ran out the front door, calling, “Wait! Wait! Is this your scarf!” 

Dora gave the professor a sheepish grin and walked back toward Hermione. “Oops, thanks.”

“Of course. Dora?” The older girl looked at Hermione. “Good luck with your interview.”

The older girl chuckled. “I don’t need the luck.” Placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and lightly pressing the pads of her fingers into her skin, she said, “If I see you in Diagon Alley, don’t you dare call me Dora, or I’ll kick your ass. It’s just Tonks.” Her kind smile and the light pink ripples in her brown hair softened the threat.

Then Tonks was by Professor McGonagall’s side, and they disappeared into thin air.

**

Even after she had accepted the invitation to Hogwarts, she could not remember much about that day. The sights, sounds, colors, movements, and smells of Diagon Alley had overwhelmed her. For the next several months, when she lay in bed at night or daydreamed at school, all she could remember clearly was an invisible ripple the prevailed on her with every step, a measurable lightness, a creeping warmth that flooded her extremities. She imagined her cells – she was learning about cells at school – filling up with golden liquid and bubbling over with something new and true.

Her parents argued a few nights after the witches’ visit. Her father was sold. “Of course, she should go to Hogwarts; we’ve worked our whole lives so our daughter could have a good life, so she could do something great. Magic! Our little girl! she will be great!”

Her mother squinted with her arms crossed, leaning against the kitchen counter, still dressed in scrubs from the office. “She is already great, Jim. Magic isn’t what makes her great.”

“Of course not. That’s not what I meant.”

“What does this lead to? What can she use this for?”

“I think we have to let her figure that out. It’s a whole world that we don’t know about.”

“You’re obsessed with it.”

“It’s exciting, Joan. I’m excited for her. She deserves to shine like this. You’re the one who knew all along that she was different. Why are you resisting this now?”

Her mother sighed in frustration. “I don’t doubt that she will learn many useful and great – yes, Jim, great – things at Hogwarts, but I am a ‘muggle’ mother whose only goal is to love my daughter and make sure she is equipped to thrive in the real world. From my perspective, seven years at a magical boarding school does not prepare her to do that.”

“It is a real world, Joan! And she can thrive in it in addition to ours.”

“Maybe. If she even wants it.”

“If she wants it, but I bet she does. Who could turn down an opportunity like this?”

By the time her parents asked her what she wanted, Hermione was ready to say yes to Hogwarts. They made an agreement to give the wizarding world a trial period. She would attend Hogwarts and be tutored in her muggle schoolwork during the summer and winter breaks. Before the beginning of the second year, they would revisit the subject. They all left the conversation feeling satisfied, and Mrs. Granger herself sent the letter of intent back to McGonagall when an owl arrived at the window with instructions tied to its foot.

Though both her father and mother felt that Mr. Granger had won this battle and that Mrs. Granger had conceded, it was Mrs. Granger who got what she wanted in the end. She simply would never know about it. Over the next several years, Hermione retreated from a world where she held privilege at the expense of so many people she had never once considered, and she became part of a world where she was oppressed in many ways but wielded a power beyond that which was endemic to that world. If Mrs. Granger had truly understood this, she wouldn’t have allowed it. Her success, though, was securing a situation where Hermione had the most invisible privilege: the ability to choose between power in the wizarding world and privilege in the muggle world. This was something even those most prominent or progressive in wizarding Britain never achieved or recognized. By the time Hermione would realize it, it wouldn’t matter anymore.


	2. The Seer a Girl

Hermione thought it odd that the same minister of magic who had so vehemently denied Voldemort’s return just a few short months ago publicized the Azkaban breakout so quickly when it occurred. Harry, of course, was furious that the ministry and the press were implicating Sirius in the matter, and it put him in a foul mood that made him challenging to be around (though what didn’t those days?). Sirius found the notion hilarious and spent an insufferable amount of time strutting around Grimmauld Place with a distinctly pureblood self-aggrandizement. Though Remus’ restored loyalty and the portrait of Walburga’s intense scorn for him, convinced even the staunchest members of the Order that he was blackest sheep of the Black family, Hermione wasn’t sure the apple fell that far from the tree based on all she’d observed as she explored the Order’s headquarters over the summer. She got the feeling that he didn’t consider himself all that different from them either. 

That was the kind of thing she kept to herself in order to avoid Harry’s ire and the Weasley’s patronizing. They had a nasty habit of writing off many things she said based on intuition unless she proved her point by drawing on her endless knowledge or magical ability – which even they could not deny was far greater than their own. She knew in the back of her mind that they would have taken her more seriously if she were not a muggleborn, but she did not yet hold it against them. Incidentally, it would be their war against Voldemort which would move her to do so. At this point, however, that war and its ideals were still young.

For the last four years, she’d worked hard in and out of class to earn a reputation for intelligence and skill that would have shocked her parents had they known. Perhaps it even shocked her, if she was honest about it. Everything had shocked her, though, from the beginning. After her first month at Hogwarts, she had become very tired of being surprised all the time – new culture, new history, new traditions, new politics, new clothes, new intelligences, things from fairy tales that were real and also so frustratingly ordinary. She quickly resolved to not be surprised anymore. She buried herself deeply in her studies, textbooks, library, and the news so that she was always a few steps ahead of everyone else – frequently even the purebloods from the oldest families. Thus, the young, confused Hermione faded away in everyone’s minds, and no one (except perhaps Professor McGonagall) could remember a time when she wasn’t the brightest witch of her age. 

**

Late in the summer one day, Sirius was in a rare, sporty mood after a few glasses of firewhiskey and took Harry, Ron, and Hermione a tour of unexplored parts of Grimmauld Place. The three of them were not too proud to shrink behind him as several suits of armor brandished unnecessarily sharp swords before standing down to salute him as the group strode down the hallway. Generations of Black portraits forgotten by even more generations lined the walls. Every now and then, one would call out to Sirius to tell him how ugly he had grown up to be, to try to commiserate over experiences in Azkaban, or ask if he’d had a child yet.

“Try that sumptuous little girl behind you, Sirius,” one said, leering at Hermione.

The voice of another saying, “Aye, not so fast. She’s a mudblood according to Walburga,” set of a chorus of hateful and crass jeers.

Ron’s defense of her was cut off by a woman dressed in almost medieval garb. “Shut up, Weasley. Your opinion matters even less than hers, unless you’re finally ready to offload your entire family estate to a better family - although by the looks of it, no one even in your house would trust you with that decision.”

Sirius ushered them quickly to a quieter hallway, which was punctuated in the middle by a striking one of ambiguous gender. Their small, devious smile somehow overshadowed a large, open wound under their right ear pulsing bright red blood onto their robes and out onto the surface of the canvas where a ragged column of brown-red substance hardened on the portrait, frame, and the wall below it. A silvery red magic misted from the wound. The person emitted a soft hiss as the group passed on the opposite side of the hallway. 

Their eyelids twitched when Sirius’ voice interrupted, “Ashlys. The first unequivocally insane member of the Black family. Well, probably not the first, but the first whose reputation outlived them. Not their fault, but also not based on merit. Come along. Don’t want your attention to go to their head.” 

As the little group carried on, Hermione saw Ashlys lift their chin and narrow their eyes at Sirius, a motion that made her inhale and shiver, though she quickly forgot about it. She resisted the urge to wave the mist out of her face; it was not altogether unpleasant, just unsettling. 

They reached their destination in a wide room with a table made from a long slice of what Hermione guessed would be a redwood tree based on pictures she saw in National Geographic when she was younger. The entire wall behind the head of the table was filled with the Black family tree. Because it perfectly filled the wall, she assumed the tapestry must be charmed to re-arrange itself as the family grew. Ornate calligraphy, strangely akin to that on her invitation to Hogwarts five years ago, identified each member of the family underneath a small picture of them. A handful of charred black holes were scattered about the tapestry. The oldest appeared to be somewhere at the turn of the 16th century; the most recent was a ragged gash in the right side of the tapestry and the wall behind it. 

“Can’t keep your eyes off it, can you? No one ever can.” Sirius loomed over them. “That spot should be Andromeda, sister to Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange. Married a muggleborn. Ted Tonks. No less dangerous than the other two though; maybe even more.”

“Tonks’ mother is a Black?” Harry wondered.

"Was. Dear cousin Bellatrix burned her off the family tree when she found out. Created quite the scene in one of my father’s meetings.”

“Were you there when it happened?” Harry asked.

“No, but I was right after. Had to help clean up and repair everything.” He turned away as his face fell. “I’m glad I wasn’t. It was the last time the sisters were together, and the family went downhill right after it.”

Lost in thought, Hermione placed her finger delicately through the hole in the tapestry into the crater in the wall where Andromeda Black should have been. A sharp jolt ran through her arm, like touching an electric fence, and she jerked it away. Narcissa Black, no, Malfoy stared up with icy blue eyes daring her to touch the family again while Bellatrix Lestrange smirked at her with a knowing look until she willed herself to look away. Lestrange looked nothing like she did in the new Death Eater wanted posters, and that bothered her for some reason.

“It reminds me of Hogwarts in a strange way,” said Hermione at the end of the tour.

Ron gawped at her, “Are you kidding? This is nothing like Hogwarts, unless you mean that it’s old, weird, and sorta epic.”

“If Hogwarts has a tenth of this house’ dark magic in its walls, it’s changed significantly since I’ve been there,” Sirius chuckled.

“No, no, it’s not that.” Hermione waved her hand dismissively. “It has a …fullness of some sort to it. It’s like it’s alive but hibernating; Hogwarts isn’t hibernating though. It’s just pulsing, overflowing its brim with centuries of magic.”

“What version of Hogwarts: A History have you been reading, ‘Mione?”, said Harry. “I was with you til the hibernation part.”

“You’ve been hanging out with Luna again, eh?” Ron poked at her.

Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed as the boys sauntered back into the kitchen. There weren’t many people who she could discuss the experience of magic with. She assumed it was raw magic and was just beginning to understand that most witches and wizards did not feel or see it the way she did. Unfortunately, Luna Lovegood was someone who did, though Hermione was loathe to admit it and had mixed feelings about entertaining Luna’s eccentricities so that she could talk about it. Still, the visible and tangible magic was what had made her long to go to Hogwarts in the first place, and it was what would entice her to many more things in the coming years.

Sirius turned before following the boys and looked straight into her eyes. “You’re right, though, Hermione. Grimmauld Place is like Hogwarts. All the old pureblood estates are. Or perhaps it’s more correct to say that Hogwarts is like them. Ancient magic is in these buildings – whether it is dark is not the question. They are alive because they can’t help it. Their families are overflowing with repressed magic and their houses soak it up. And every building answers to master, which is generally the head of the family - although sometimes it's the most powerful family member instead.”

Hermione remembered reading something about stone soldiers which would mobilize at the Hogwarts headmaster’s command. “Like Dumbledore controls Hogwarts?”

“Yes, although I’m certain if one of the heirs of the four founders returned, the building would abandon him in a heartbeat.”

“And you command Grimmauld Place?”

“For now.” That was the most lucid and earnest she would ever see him.

Of course, the pureblood houses were like Hogwarts. That many of them pre-dated it and therefore that Hogwarts was perhaps modelled upon them should have been obvious to her. Hogwarts: A History was practically a reader of pureblooded education ambitions, now that she thought about it. What wasn’t? Diagon Alley, Gringotts, the Wizengamot all began as pet projects of the Sacred 28. The other Ministry divisions and its slum wards were boons from them to halfbloods, squibs, and displaced Irishmen. World Quidditch and other international collaborations were invented to buy the loyalty of the developing middle wizarding class in Britain. So that evening as Arthur Weasley, Tonks, and Lupin passed a bottle of firewhiskey back and forth in front of the fire blabbering about the imminent fall of pureblood supremacy, Hermione sank deep into her chair, glowering into her butterbeer. Pureblood supremacy was systemic throughout the entire existence of the wizarding world, and she doubted any of them could see that. Maybe they wouldn’t even want to if they could. If the bloody Order didn’t see it, there was no way that winning the war against Voldemort would uproot it. 

Halfway through a defeated sigh, Hermione dumped her drink on her lap as she scrambled to grope for her wand. A head of long, tumbling, dark hair appeared with a pop in the fireplace. Framed by roaring green floo flames under the Black family crest on the mantle, the angry eyes from Bellatrix Lestrange’s wanted poster stared down the three closest to her. Magic flexed, the walls bowing out and caving back toward the fireplace. 

Her voice sliced coldly through the room, “Nymphadora!”

“Merlin, mum!” Tonks lazily crossed her ankles on the footrest in front of her. “No need to yell. I’m right here – and was enjoying my evening, I might add.” 

Tonks’ mom. It was Andromeda Tonks, not Lestrange. Hermione relaxed a shaking hand that still hadn’t found her wand and let out a silent breath. 

“You promised your father and me that you would be over for dinner at 6. It’s 9:30. Your worried father called on the Ministry to see if your team had returned safely from Romania but was told you were actually off early. And you’re here at the bloody Order of the fucking Phoenix headquarters in this shithole – “

“Andy, it’s not so bad now. Why don’t you let yourself in and have a look around?” Sirius butted in. Hermione could tell he was oblivious to the house gyrating with magic.

Deeply wild, umber eyes turned toward him. The house flexed again as purple and yellow sprung from the walls and rushed to be redirected up as a fountain in the middle of the room. “What kind of fool are you to invite someone like me into your shell of a home for your shell of a life? You are as much of a hypocrite and a coward as the rest of them.” 

The house trembled with these words, but the head swiveled back toward Tonks and continued speaking in a highly threatening tone. “It’s your father’s birthday tomorrow. You’ll be over for tea if you expect to have a place to stay between missions when you command the special ops unit. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, mum.” A frozen Tonks nodded, hair flushing dark blue.

The head spun back into the flames, which returned to their normal glow, and the room was silent. The magic collapsed, and the crestfallen house let it slink away to slumber again in the hallways. Hermione stole a glance at Sirius, whose eyes were locked on the ornamental designs in the ceiling’s corner, now aware but unseeing of the magic dying back into the creases of the house.

“I better go now.” Tonks sat down her unfinished drink, stood quickly, summoned her robe, and strode out of Grimmauld Place before conversation continued. It was the same as always in that no one said a word about the raw magic.

Truthfully, the breakout at Azkaban turned out to be a bit of a letdown. No sign of the Death Eaters was seen for many months, and they receded into everyone’s subconsciousness. The Quidditch World Championships came and went without incident; Diagon Alley overflowed with back-to-school shoppers; London reported an economic upturn for rural muggle villages; and Harry remained un-attacked. By the time the Hogwarts Express reached the school, a glum uneasiness – much like the raw magic - was simply part of their existence but went mostly unmentioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> andromeda tonks, the woman herself, enters stage right.
> 
> remember, post-hogwarts begins chapter 8. bellamione follows not too long after that.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	3. Incarnation Caricatured

Hermione would always remember the day she learned about horcruxes because it was about 20 hours before the All Hallow’s Eve ball in her fifth year. Harry had been struggling with nightmares for weeks, and she had taken to spending even later nights in the library so that she could return to Gryffindor common room when he was alone and convince him to go to sleep. She’d long since finished her homework that particular night and was following an interesting trail of ensouled flora through a smattering of one-off herbology texts. The books ranged from musty at best to self-absorbed existential reflections to political banter and more. The author of the text that ended up commanding her attention was rather crass, so Hermione nearly skimmed straight over the first mention of horcruxes trying to avoid his rather lascivious tangents. She blinked once after the finishing the paragraph and scanned back through it. She rubbed her sleepy eyes and read it again. 

_“The joining of one’s soul to an anymyne is not too be confused with a horcrux wherein one ritually kills an innocent human – usually a muggle - to immortalize a fractured piece of one’s soul in another object. Rather, it is more akin to a patronus charm wherein one gives of one’s best goodness….”_

_The horror of such a thing. The horror…_ was her first thought. Her second was to recognize that it was the fracturing of a soul that horrified her the most, not the killing of an innocent person. Her third was to reject the second. Based on the author’s juxtaposition of the horcrux and the patronus, intentionally killing an innocent was the opposite of goodness. A fractured soul, as awful as it sounded, surely was not the opposite of “giving of one’s best goodness.”

She checked the book binding to see if it was meant to be filed in the restricted section. It was not. Another hour of searching the non-restricted shelves (as she no longer had after-hours access to the restricted section) led her to no more information at all related to the concept, and she decided to call it quits for the night. She toyed with the idea of leaving the book out with a note for Madame Pince to consider re-shelving, but instead she placed it right back where she found it. 

On her way back to the common room, her stomach twisted with anxiety as she mulled the concept over in her head. Harry was asleep in front of the fire when she arrived, and she did not wake him since it was a small victory that he was sleeping. By the next morning, she had decided not to tell either of the boys about it; it didn’t seem worth it to worry Harry further. Many times after that, she pondered the implications of the possibility that Voldemort had used horcruxes, but the next time she spoke about the concept was almost year and a half later when Harry brought it up. She did always feel somewhat guilty about that.

**

The celebration was simple that evening. It was uncharacteristic for the school to host the ball without an event like the Tri-Wizard tournament to prompt it, but the professors felt that a celebration was needed to lift spirits this year. Professor Flitwick decorated the Great Hall to feel like a proper holiday without too much fanfare. Dumbledore was in even better spirits than usual and took McGonagall for a spin on the dance floor, to her great embarrassment and the pleasure of most of the students. Hermione danced more than she anticipated, slightly surprised at the number of awkward young men that approached her asking to dance. Harry looked more peaceful than he had in months, and his red face when that pretty Ravenclaw girl pulled him by his collar onto the floor to dance did nothing to mar it. Ron was ignorable and mostly grumbly until someone spiked the punch. Typically, Hermione would have alerted the nearest prefect about the alcohol, but it seemed that the prefects were maybe in on the prank anyway. She let herself feel relaxed and was only mildly concerned when two black plumes of smoke of shot across the enchanted sky on the ceiling. The feeling passed quickly; she didn’t notice Dumbledore leave the room. 

She noticed acutely, however, Katie Bell’s hand placed on her arm with her thumb lightly stroking the inside of her elbow during the animated conversation of a large group of jolly Gryffindors. A nervous anticipation boiled in her rib cage when Katie’s hand drifted along her lower back to pull her in for a group photo. The girl shot her an amused grin and asked her if she wanted another drink. Hermione nodded wordlessly as Katie sauntered away in the direction of the punch bowl. Gears in her brain ground with great effort trying to discern the feeling. She concluded the alcohol was getting the best of her and decided she was just going to enjoy it.

When Dumbledore returned to the head table, he had a grim look and his wand at his voice box, his voice ringing out with authority through the hall. “Silence. Silence! There has been an attack on a muggle town six kilometers from here. Prefects, please escort your houses back to your common rooms and wait there for further instructions from faculty. There is no reason to expect danger at Hogwarts, but we believe it in your best interests to remain in your dorms until more information is released. You may go.”

Katie forgotten, Hermione whirled to search for Harry’s face in the crowd. Gathering Ron, they walked with him back to the common room. 

“Are you ok, mate?” Ron slurred.

“It was Death Eaters,” Harry pressed two fingers between his eyebrows. “I can hear someone laughing. You can’t, can you? It sounds like Voldemort in the cemetery. Announcing something… Merlin, it’s awful.”

Ron looked worried, but only said, “How much did you drink, mate?”

“It’s not that. It’s not. It’s… I can hear him, see houses burning. He’s pleased. Bloody hell.”

“Let’s go to Pomfrey.” Hermione asserted, startling both the boys. “The common room can wait. This needs to be dealt with now.”

Pomfrey was grumpy with them for coming but kept them locked up in the medical ward with her the whole night. In the wee hours of the morning, Snape whisked Harry away to his office. He still had not returned when students were allowed back out of their common rooms and daily routine resumed as normal. That Monday the Daily Prophet arrived with “SUSPECTED DEATH EATER ACTIVITY” emblazoned on the front page, but the article said nothing more than what they already knew.

**

By the winter holiday, Harry finally admitted to Ron and Hermione that he had been seeing and hearing things in his head for the better part of the semester, things that he believed were related to Voldemort. He attended nightly meetings with Snape to practice occlumency. Hermione sometimes thought those lessons were counterproductive. Harry was constantly exhausted, obsessed with Voldemort even more than usual, and incredibly difficult for even Ron and Hermione to be around. Sirius’ head appeared in the fireplace one evening to invite Harry to spend the holiday at Grimmauld Place with him. With his long curly hair against the green flames, Hermione thought he looked remarkably like Andromeda and, therefore, Lestrange but thought better of saying so. Harry enthusiastically said yes, but the next morning McGonagall informed him rather brusquely that he would be returning to Privet Drive instead – which of course made him even more sullen. Hermione hated to admit it, but she was glad the break gave her an excuse to get away from him and the whole situation.

The holiday was predictable. She spent her days in coffee shops or at the kitchen table catching up on most of what her muggle counterparts had learned in the fall semester. In the evenings she went out with a few people she was friendly with, making up fantastic stories about boarding school that held no candle to the truth. Her father always roared with delight when she filled her parents in so they could corroborate her stories later. She didn’t tell them about Azkaban, didn’t tell them about Death Eaters, didn’t tell them about the pureblood hate for muggleborns that seemed to be ramping up behind the scenes. They knew an unsavory man was gaining some power in the community but had assumed that he was a dirty politician who wasn’t really a danger unless one got in his way. Hermione chose not to correct them because it seemed easier than explaining that an old, endemic oppression was raising its head violently in the wizarding world. 

At Christmas, her mother unwrapped a red and gold scarf that Hermione had knitted with Molly Weasley’s guidance and wore it every time she left the house until Hermione went back to school. Her father was elated to find two tickets to a quidditch game and a small book explaining the games’ rules and history so that Hermione wouldn’t have to. The match would ring in the New Year. Hermione assured her mother she had gotten permission from the ministry to bring her muggle father to a game and promised repeatedly that she would keep him safe. “Don’t make me request an unbreakable vow, Hermione,” Mrs. Granger had said with a wink.

The day of the game, her dad came downstairs wearing his rugby-styled Gryffindor shirt, carrying the quidditch handbook and a handful of cash to change to galleons. Her father easily embarrassed her sometimes, but she was grateful for his enthusiastic support. In Diagon Alley, they made their way to the quidditch portkey which spit them out in the circus of tents and concessions in front of the pitch. She thought he fit in with the throng quite well, exposing himself as a muggle only when fawning loudly over various charmed trinkets. As the game went on, he was more and more delighted; his enthusiasm was infectious. She considered herself quite clever for this Christmas gift to him. 

The game ended with a shower of fireworks in the shapes of dragons and harpies. Hermione clapped and laughed along with her father until the smoke and ash drifting down from the lights seemed to collect into cylindrical shapes and swoop along the top of the stadium. Something felt wrong about that to her. Magical energy began to emanate from the metal on the stadium and she couldn’t tell if it was dread or something else that washed over her from the top of her head. Then the fireworks went out and the columns of smoke circled lower and lower, until one scraped the pitch and morphed into a human running. Tendrils of smoke billowed out from the figure’s head – or was that hair? Both? – and flames erupted from its feet. It drew a large circle of fire on the pitch, stopped in the middle, and began twirling slowly, an amplified cackle trilling upwards from it followed by a lilting woman’s voice.

“The Dark Lord has returned. Very soon, you will get to choose whom you follow. I suggest you don’t make a mistake.” Four more columns of smoke alighted on the pitch, four men who tossed what looked like severed heads onto the ground. “It would be a such a shame for you Witches and Wizards to make a mistake.” 

Then the figures disappeared in billowing smoke; the crowd erupted in panic. Hermione pulled her father to his feet with an uncommon strength and dragged him, creating a path with a moving repelling charm in a beeline to the portkey. Back in Diagon Alley, she ignored his questions as they all but sprinted to muggle London, not stopping until they were back inside the Granger house with all the doors locked.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Mr. Granger’s breath was ragged, and his eyes were on the floor. 

“I’m not really sure…” Hermione was actually quite sure.

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Granger demanded from the doorway.

Mr. Granger grimaced with his eyes closed. “Some sort of terrorist attack. At the match.”

Hermione ran with the explanation. “There have been rumors of a terrorist group forming, but I don’t know a lot about it.” She knew actually quite a lot about the Death Eaters at this point.

“What’s their deal? Their cause?” 

“It’s hard to say.” It was actually quite easy to say - but not to her parents. “Absolute power. Tradition. They want to go back to the way things were.”

“How did things used to be?” Her mother crossed her arms leaning against the doorframe, eyes boring into her.

Hermione swallowed. “No muggleborns in the wizarding community. I think that’s part of it. The rest is a bit hazy.” That part was true.

The Granger parents asked a few more questions. Hermione tried to answer them truthfully without giving away the severity of the situation. She had a feeling that they might not let her return if they knew the truth, and not returning was unthinkable for her now. She also suspected the less they knew, the less likely they were to become targets if things got worse. At the end of the conversation, the Granger parents were still shocked and fearful for their daughter but sufficiently convinced that it was a freak event, that Mr. Granger had experienced the literal worst of the wizarding world. Hermione, however, had a feeling that much worse was yet to come and perhaps was coming fast. She made a mental note to owl Professor McGonagall about being delicate when responding to a potentially forceful letter from her mother requesting more information. 

That night Mrs. Granger brooded while listening to soft chirping coming from Hermione’s room where tiny sparrows circled above Hermione’s head until she nodded off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing that bothers me in ff is when authors re-write events that jkr wrote without changing any details just to have them in their stories. Thus, I have tried to avoid doing that by only writing Hogwarts things that I am slightly adjusting for the sake of my own story. If it feels like there are gaps in my storytelling it is a) due to that, and b) I wanted to create a sense of some ambiguity and/or quickness in the author/reader experience in some parts of this story. Hope it doesn’t totally flop.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	4. Are You Savable or are You Orderable?

Though her parents had protested, Hermione was back at Hogwarts at the end of the break, and school itself proceeded uneventfully. The Daily Prophet, however, now brought news of disappearances, terrorization of muggle towns, conspiracy theories about ministry officials, loose dementors, biographies about suspected Death Eaters, and the odd murder. Harry had been expelled and then readmitted to Hogwarts for casting underage magic in the presence of a muggle over break: he had cast a patronus charm to save his cousin from a rogue dementor. He’d also sworn not to return to return to the Dursleys’ ever again if he could help it, and Hermione and Ron again found themselves doing damage control in the wake of their friend’s increasingly grumpy demeanor. Ginny, who had been obviously interested in Harry during the Fall semester, attached herself to Dean Thomas instead.

Visits to Hogsmeade became dominated by whispers about Death Eaters and their whereabouts in every corner where two or more could huddle together. The deranged face of Bellatrix Lestrange supplanted Sirius Black on every wanted poster; indeed, the posters multiplied and became the focal point of every public posting location. It occurred to Hermione that the public – or at least the ministry and the media – considered other escaped Death Eaters to be mostly footnotes to Lestrange. As with most things, this fascinated her, but this fascination repulsed her. She had to shake it from her mind repeatedly to maintain her muggle schoolwork, stay ahead in her magical studies, and take care of Harry all at the same time. 

Occasionally she slipped, like the time she spent too long researching the Black family in a book about the history of the Sacred 28 and found that not only were they conspicuously absent from Grindelwald’s scheme but there was not a single reference to the Black family’s investment in any political, social, or economic group in the last three centuries. Or when she read about their lengthy trade deal with goblins from upper Scandinavia, who likely founded Gringotts with support from the House of Black. Or when she flipped through old yearbooks to find pictures of Andromeda and Ted Tonks, trying to decide if anyone could have known then what was happening. Or when she began studying the Wizengamot in detail and noted that the Black family seat had been empty since Cygnus and Druella Black passed away, incidentally not too many years after Voldemort emerged in public discourse with his Death Eaters. The House of Black was almost mythic, and for a time she drank in their legends like it was they who formed the foundation of wizarding Britain – and therefore her world – and held it together with an ancient web of mere existence.

Sometime after her 16th birthday but before the end of the semester, she was escorted to the headmaster’s office to receive a letter from the ministry indicating that her trace for underage magic was removed. Due to her frequent use of a time turner for her third-year studies, she had lived “extra” and therefore had comparatively aged. It bothered her somewhat that she had not considered this possibility, but she supposed it mattered little. She kept the information to herself; Dumbledore and McGonagall promised to do the same. Not much changed with the removal of the trace. Even that which was unique about her passed quite unremarkably.

The best thing she did that semester, besides her paper on the arithmantic properties of dark magic in semi-magical creatures, was convince Harry to begin a small dueling club designed to help students train for DADA outside of class. He cheered considerably with the project and threw himself into researching, practicing, and teaching new spells and dueling tricks. That he lacked real experience with most of them mattered little to anyone. Results were results, and no one denied Harry’s uncanny ability to organize and improve his friends’ magical skill. Ron commented that he hadn’t seen Harry so happy since before the Tri-Wizard tournament last year, and Hermione soon noticed the Gryffindor common room thrumming with a magical pleasure when he was present. Things were looking up.

Then Harry had the vision of Sirius being tortured in the Department of Mysteries. Perhaps because of the dueling club, he was emboldened to go save Sirius, and perhaps also because of the dueling club Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville were inclined to follow him. Hermione cursed herself for it all later. Of course, Sirius was not there when they arrived. Of course, Lucius Malfoy and a group of Death Eaters hemmed in the Hogwarts students. Of course, there was prophecy that concerned both Harry and Voldemort. Of course, Voldemort was using his connection with Harry to his own advantage. Of course.

When they caused enough commotion to flee, Hermione could hear only the pounding of feet behind her, the sear of jinxes flying past, the maniacal cackle that could only be Lestrange echoing through shelves of prophecies, and the quaking of the prophecies themselves. Firing spells over her shoulder without pausing to think what they were, her senses were overtaken by the thousands of glowing orbs delicately balanced on either side of her, floor to ceiling. They were glowing in pastels with dusty light that looked as if it would trail off behind anything that touched the orb, emitting a hygienic odor that was metallic on her tongue, and sizzling louder and louder until they drowned out all sounds of battle. They beckoned to her. For the first time, her magic felt expansive and mighty; she felt it reach out to the orbs in relationship that was distinctly human. The prophecies called to her for release, for escape from the magic that secured them in their spherical prisons. It suddenly seemed most important and reasonable to fire a casual bombarda at the very top corner of one shelf aisle she was exiting. The sizzling was replaced with waves of shattering glass and a chaotic choir of ancient voices welling up behind her.

“Hermione.” Neville appeared in front of her as she slowed briefly. He was staring past her with his jaw hung. 

Curious, she turned and watched as prophecies cascaded endlessly off the shelves, exploded on impact with the ground or with each other, and released long kept secrets in foggy figures and clear voices. Crowds of long-contained magic bore down on them; despite the desperation of their predicament, Hermione felt a strange happiness. It was a stunningly beautiful sight, and one she would never forget, especially when a curved wand emerged from the swirling lights followed by the arm, hair and body of a crazed woman. It looked like Lestrange was struggling to be birthed from Light itself.

Neville jerked her arm, but before they were running again the Order was there to take over the battle. Gasping for breath behind them, time slowed down for Hermione. The duelers advanced and parried, retreated and defended, just like she imagined fencers did. They twirled their wrists with poise, spun with grace, and turned spell-dodging into offensive attacks. She thought she heard orchestral music but quickly talked herself out of that useless fantasy. 

A killing curse sprung from the wand of one of the stockier Death Eaters who had not yet removed his mask. Three things happened at once: Sirius deflected the curse with a small flick of his wand, Lupin disarmed the attacker, and Lestrange threw a resounding stupefy at Sirius. Her arm remained curled over the top of her head, eyes wide, as an unconscious Sirius arched unnaturally backwards toward a shimmering veil, floated head-first into it, and did not come out the other side. Hermione could see Lestrange’s chest heaving before she backed away to sprint out of the room. Harry chased her. Hermione and Ron chased Harry. They saw flashes of green down the corridor in front of them and sent protegos, albeit weak ones, ahead hoping to protect him from the Death Eater. 

Then, instead of that maniacal woman’s voice she expected, she heard a chilling sound she spent the rest of her life trying to unhear: her best friend’s voice screaming, _“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!”_

They stayed at Grimmauld Place that night but returned to Hogwarts the next day for the last day of exams – which they all skipped – to pack their things. No word came from Dumbledore or any of the others. When they unloaded the train at Platform 9 ¾, Mrs. Weasley bundled Harry off with the rest of the family. They gave hurried and hollow promises to write and invitations to visit, disappearing before they could see the Malfoys collecting their son a few train cars down. Draco and Lucius turned away without acknowledging Hermione’s lonely presence, but Narcissa maintained unreadable, penetrating eye contact with her before the young woman turned and walked through muggle London the opposite direction from her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	5. Unrelieved Mythic Correlate

Tonks was inducted into the Order over the summer. They found out not because they had become privy to the information and mechanisms of the Order (which they were miffed about because felt they had earned that right in the Department of Mysteries) but because of Andromeda Tonks.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting in Dumbledore’s office one night the first week of class. He said he’d wanted to check in on them to see how they were doing several months after the confrontation with the Death Eaters and Sirius’ death. The conversation, as one would guess, was going poorly. Even in this safest of havens inside of Hogwarts, there was no safe way to process that event. Hermione would previously have guessed that the headmaster’s office was soundproof, but during one of the many lulls in the conversation, an angry bellow reached them from what had to be the corridor beyond the gargoyles.

“DUMBLEDORE!”

McGonagall started, her wand already in her hand; Dumbledore merely frowned and rubbed his eyes under his glasses.

“DUMBLEDORE!” A blast punctuated the last syllable. “DUMBLEDORE YOU LET ME IN RIGHT NOW OR I WILL BURN THIS WHOLE WING DOWN.”

“Minerva, would you please get the door for Mrs. Tonks?” When McGonagall hesitated, he continued, “Remember - the last time she visited it took the elves weeks to repair the gargoyles and one had to be replaced altogether.”

She unhappily obliged him, and in strode Andromeda Tonks tall and ramrod straight, moving smoothly but with force in slim magenta robes that swirled around her feet. Her loose, auburn hair flowed around her shoulders to accentuate eyes ablaze with fury – Hermione thought there literally could be flames in her irises at that moment – and wand in striking position in hand. 

“Andromeda. Welcome. It’s a pleasure to see you as always.” Dumbledore was kind but more diplomatic even than usual.

“You bloody bastard inducted MY daughter into the Order?! It is unclear to me what the HELL you think you’re doing.” She had both hands on his desk, wand pressed down into the wood but still pointed at him while she leaned in. The three friends had never even considered that someone could speak this way to their headmaster.

“She wants to be in the Order, Andromeda. She asked many times before we said yes.”

“Because she doesn’t understand!” Sparks erupted from her fingertips - _not her wand_ \- and scattered around him.

“She is an excellent auror and commands the most successful unit at the ministry. She’s quite intelligent and knows what she’s getting herself into.”

“No, she doesn’t. None of your minions do. She thinks it’s the logical next step from playing coppers and robbers with her father. It’s all very black and white to her. Good guys, bad guys, everyone is one or the other. It’s a fake cause and a foolish notion and fools don’t succeed – they just get lucky, or they get killed.”

“The Order is – “

“The Order has NO idea what it’s dealing with. You of all people know that. You know it’s not ultimately about the Dark Lord. You know what they’re like. The fucking Order has no fucking clue about the magic of the old families, the way it’s killing them, the way they can only be killed by it or for it. You are leading them into something they don’t know they’re getting into!”

“Andromeda, please –“ Dumbledore gestured at the three students. 

It was impressive how unembarrassed Andromeda was when she finally registered their presence. Her demeanor would have been akin to very severe Mrs. Weasley if it were not for that deadly smile on her perfect lips and her wand still pointed confidently at the arguably most powerful wizard in centuries. 

“Hello dears. I must apologize for our meeting this way. Harry, Ron, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hear quite good things about you, especially if you consider a healthy dose of mischief good.” Hermione swore she saw Dumbledore hide an amused grin. “Hermione, is it? Dora speaks so highly of you. Says she knew you were something special when she visited you with Minerva so long ago, and she continues to brag on your achievements. She is normally such a good judge of persons. Her judgment on the other hand…”  
Andromeda whirled to face Dumbledore again, displeased.

“So you’re here to ask me to revoke her membership in the Order?”

“No. Fat load of difference that will make. She’s already way in over her head.” Her voice lowered. “I’m here to tell you that I will hold you personally responsible for anything and everything that happens to her. And I am not afraid to make life very hard for you, Albus.” 

“I’m quite aware, and I find you reasonable.” The two held eye contact for several moments. The three students were unsure who was more formidable.

Andromeda broke the silence first and faced the students with a genuine smile again. “Ron, give your parents my greetings. All of you, please know that you are always welcome in my home. Any friend of Dora’s is a friend of mine.” She narrowed her eyes at Dumbledore while still facing the three. “Come any time. You don’t have to owl.”

With that she strode out of the room, and everyone let out a deep breath they didn’t realize they were holding.

At dinner, the students were abuzz with gossip about the long-haired woman who had stormed into Hogwarts without permission. She had apparently hexed the Head Boy when he tried to interfere with her mission to the headmaster’s office. 

“I heard she transfigured his eyes into boils that leaked goo and burned off his cheeks.”

“No no, tied him to a statue with snakes and cast a muffliato over him.”

“Well, I heard she kissed him and his lips swelled so big they covered his face! Nearly killed him.”

“She’s one of those sirens crossed with an acromantula.”

The rumors got lustier and more absurd from there. The general consensus was that she was the sexiest woman the students had ever seen and also the most terrifying. No one was confident of any other truth about her, and Hermione, Ron, and Harry kept their experiences to themselves.

**

Harry was more diligent with occlumency now, and weeks passed without any emergencies directly involving the three friends. They did notice Malfoy’s face and shoulders were perpetually pinched, and Ron saw him more than once stalking down the hallway scraping tears from his eyes. A new, anxious magic wafted from him like dying steam. The night Katie Bell was nearly killed by the cursed necklace, Hermione lay awake in bed flipping through mental images of her spread eagle form in the air, her hand on Hermione’s waist at the ball last year, her breathy laugh, and the inhuman scream she had emitted before the necklace cast her to the ground. Two weeks later, she and the boys pieced together from rumor, the Daily Prophet, and casual words from McGonagall an event that occurred in northwestern Poland: the Carrow twins had been found decapitated in an abandoned shack with the Dark Mark in the sky above them. A whole muggle town had to be obliviated, but it was almost certain that some muggles had escaped the spell and retained the memory. Ministry officials in all departments moved about anxiously at home and at work. Even Tonks was snappish the day she sat with Hermione for a butterbeer on a chance meeting in the Three Broomsticks one weekend.

“Your mother-“

“Is a nightmare? Yes, I know.” Tonks was quick to interrupt.

Hermione faltered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… Uhhh. She just caused quite a stir at school.”

Tonks scoffed with a smile. “I’m sure she did. She can’t help it, I think. She either keeps to herself to a fault or destroys the peace. She doesn’t show up in public much, but when she does, she really dominates the space.”

 _Especially the magical space,_ thought Hermione. “I’m sorry for bringing it up. We don’t need to talk about family.” Perhaps Andromeda was more like her sisters than she had assumed.

“You misunderstand. My mother is wonderful – the kindest, most intelligent, and gracious woman that I have ever met. I adore her; everyone does. You have seen, though, that she can be quite fierce. Dad always said she was the most merciless duelist in their year at Hogwarts, and based on what she did when I got in trouble growing up, I’m sure I don’t want to see firsthand.” The woman laughed, her hair shimmering with red and orange.

Hermione was also certain she did not want see Tonks’ mother duel in person – but maybe it would be nice on a big screen in a movie theatre behind a large bucket of popcorn. The fleeting fantasy of Andromeda Tonks as a movie star was interrupted when Harry and Ron- accompanied by Fred and George on a surprise visit - squeezed into the small booth hollering about something quidditch. After a bit of banter from the twins (“Going to see Remus, eh Tonks?”), Tonks departed, promising to visit the Burrow for Bill and Fleur’s wedding at the end of their Fall semester.

**

It was hard to remember later, but the wedding celebration was probably beautiful - that is, whatever wasn’t eclipsed by the Death Eaters’ attack on the Burrow. Fiendfyre had ripped through the living room wall and snaked its way upstairs. The sound of whipping wind was followed by flying black smoke shattering glass and cackling with glee. The face of Bellatrix Lestrange lured a vengeful Harry outside, and once again he was chasing her without second thought. Ginny, Lupin, Tonks, and Charlie had followed him. When they came back, they were shaken but would say nothing more than that they had traded spells with Lestrange, Greyback, Yaxley, and someone else they didn’t recognize. They all then evacuated to the Ministry in mass to request aid.

The Weasleys and Harry stayed at Grimmauld Place over the winter break while the Burrow was being rebuilt. Harry offered to escort Hermione home to her parents’ place, but Hermione declined. At home she spent the better part of the time lying to her mother and father about what was happening at school, in her life, and in the wizarding world. Every night, her sparrows chased each other in their circle but quietly now that she had a suspicion her mother knew about them and probably understood them better than she herself did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hello.  
> yes, i have clearly muddled together (my english teachers would have a cow if they read that phrase) and/or reorganized some canon events in this chapter and others. i warned you in the tags. cheer up.  
> as consolation, next chapter is longer than any preceding chapter and has a lot of ya girl bellatrix lestrange.  
> to those leaving comments - thank you! i am reflecting more on my story choices and core questions because of you.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	6. Soteriologically Diluted

The day of the raid on the Weasley house, Bellatrix Black Lestrange wished twice that she had never learned how to apparate, fly, or travel efficiently at all. She only wanted to travel slowly, as if to never arrive. Instead, she felt always already present and never quite past. Whenever there was something to be destroyed, she had to be there, and once she was there it never quite left her. Being stuck under generations of magic and her own corruption made her weary most of the time, though she worked very hard to hide it. There was always more pain to be doled out, but at this point neither did it excite or hurt her anymore.

Standing on the edge of the trees, she only felt sick. Distant notes of music signaled dancing and frivolity in the orange glow emitting from the rickety shack. She wrinkled her nose at the slum building out of habit. If she was honest (which she didn’t want to be right now), the mere fact that the Weasley house was still standing, all patchwork and leftover parts, was a testament to the oft-belittled Weasley family magic. She wanted it to grate on her – the sound of blood-traitors making merry – but instead it caused her to re-construct fleeting memories of drunken ragers she had thrown in the Slytherin common room with Rod’s and Andy’s help and the elegant balls for which her mother had been known. Of course, there was no way to pretend those were “the good ol’ days”, but they had a different quality than celebrations of late. Mirth, she knew, was not inherently a contrived thing, but it seemed that the Death Eaters and their sympathizers were laying it on too thickly these days. She would never say that, of course, and the Dark Lord had very little to find when he went snooping through her mind these days so he’d mostly stopped doing so. Not long after she received the dark mark all those years ago, she was present for a strange encounter in which she sensed that Snape held a secret advantage over the Dark Lord. She had crucio’d him until she learned his secret. They never spoke about the encounter after that, and Bellatrix probably never let her occlumency shields down around another witch or wizard again - Azkaban notwithstanding. 

She sighed. It didn’t really matter anymore if he searched her mind, did it? There was little to find. So much of her 40-year-old brain had been re-written with the horrible nothingness of Azkaban. Then the Dark Lord had given her and the other escaped Death Eaters a great boon: he restored to them their years lost to Azkaban. The nightmares, the screams, the cold, the illnesses, the manias, the physical deterioration of that hellhole were all gone with a tap of his wand. He extracted or blurred the memories and rolled back the toll the years took on their bodies. They were now most loyal servants who looked to be in their late 20s and knew, but did not have to remember, the most terrible things they had experienced. 

“The ministry tortured you,” he had announced with great pomp, “but I have undone all that they did to you. They can never execute justice and mercy for you as I do – and they never wanted to!” 

She had believed him out of necessity. How could she not? 14 years of trauma wiped from her mind and body was the best thing that happened to her since Andromeda left all those years ago. It was never so easy, and so bland, to be dark. 

Really, the attack in the Department of Mysteries last Spring had been too complicated, she thought, but the Dark Lord had believed it would work. They hadn’t counted on the sheer number of friends that arrived with the Potter boy, and their plan had faltered due to an unexpected unfamiliarity with children’s magic. Nonetheless, it had given them the fodder for this much simpler plan that she and her team were about to execute: cause havoc, lure Potter past the wards into the field, kill whoever followed, and take him to the Dark Lord. They were banking on Potter's blind hatred for Bellatrix due to Sirius’ death. She frowned at the thought yet again and shook her cousin from her mind. A raucous round of cheering at the Weasley house suggested a toast being given. If there was a right time to begin, this was it, but it didn’t make her feel any less sick.

“Let’s get this over with,” she muttered. They took to the skies in pillars of smoke. 

It was all too easy. Potter leapt through the fire like a madman and charged after her into the swampy field. Keeping a wordless, wandless protego up while running, she was barely winded when she circled back on him and found Greyback creeping through the tall grass. Then the Weasley girl and one of her oldest brothers crashed into Potter. Greyback grimaced as Remus Lupin and another small-framed figure dashed in as well, all falling into a tight circle back-to-back. Bellatrix stepped out of the grass with her protego still up and stalked around the group, dallying for effect.

“Bellatrix! It’s time!” barked Yaxley nervously.

She placed one foot in front of the other slowly, tapping her wand in her hand. A single, nervous spell from the Weasley boy’s wand glanced harmlessly off her shield, prompting a smile to break out on her lips and a barking laugh to rip from them. “It would be a pleasure to educate you on dueling, Weasley, since your mother didn't. I wish we had time for more games, but I need to kill you.”

The boy’s complexion reddened in an unflattering way and his wand reared back in a flourish that would surely be disastrous for him, but a woman’s voice, too deep and rich to belong to the Weasley girl, came from the other side of the circle. “Charlie, stop. Don’t egg her on. Hold steady.”

“Don’t egg me on?” Bellatrix skirted toward the voice, looking for the speaker. “It’s curious to me that you think I can be manipulated by – “ Her words caught in her throat and her wand stopped twirling in her palm, stunned by something very familiar. Noble and Most Ancient Black family eyes bored into her own, simmering on the haughty face of someone she had never seen but who was undoubtedly her middle sister’s daughter.

“I dare you to lift that wand, Aunt Bella. So help me Merlin.” The woman’s face flashed.

Bellatrix did not move her wand. She didn’t move at all, actually. Anger, dismay, and longing washed over her and pinned her feet into the mud. 

“Lestrange.” Yaxley yelled. “Lestrange!”

Her throat constricted and sternum bowed, whether out of anxiety or a consequence of the imperius protesting her inaction she did not know, but she remained rooted to the spot, protego in place. Spells flew all around her. Yaxley sprouted three long lacerations across his chest from one of Harry’s spells, and in the distance more people rushed through the fire into the grass toward them. She tore herself from her spot, yelled for retreat, and apparated back to Malfoy manner with Yaxley in tow.

This meant she was back in the Dark Lord’s presence without any time to prepare an explanation. Snape and Narcissa received them in the Great Room. The sullen man mended Yaxley while Narcissa took Bellatrix’s elbows and tried to coax the story out of her. She couldn’t tell her about Andromeda’s daughter. She couldn’t explain, so she couldn’t tell her.

A bellow of rage echoed in the hallway. Then there was nothing until Pettigrew appeared in the doorway to say, “The Dark Lord requests your presence upstairs.”

Narcissa helped Bellatrix navigate the hallway and the stairs. Despite her sister’s physical instability, Narcissa could see no injuries, and that worried her perhaps more than if she could. When they entered the conference room, Narcissa backed away toward the wall while Bellatrix approached the Dark Lord.

“You’ve failed me.” He did not use her name. “You of all people. The strongest witch in Britain’s recorded history has been bested by schoolchildren twice in less than a year.” 

That was not exactly true, she thought, but kept it to herself and lowered her eyes as he swiveled his chair to face her. “I apologize, my Lord. I’ve – “

“Been lacking some motivation? Yes, I see that. I fear I may have disadvantaged you by removing your memories of Azkaban. Your actions suggest you don’t remember the ghastliness of the ministry and its pitiful intentions. Your power wanes because you don’t feel it in your soul.”

Bellatrix, in fact, felt many dreadful things deep in her soul. She raised her head to look at her Lord, imploring him to have some other kind of mercy. Narcissa’s muscles tightened in the corner as he withdrew his wand and Nagini coiled herself around Bellatrix’s lower legs.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child, Bella. But Never mind, we can fix it.”

With a lazy flick of his wrist, the Dark Lord spat a wordless spell that collided with Bellatrix’s forehead. She swayed, held in place by Nagini, while her Lord’s face morphed into a hazy dementor’s hollow head in front of her and leaned closer. She heard a familiar screaming growing louder in the background, and then she collapsed.

After Bellatrix’s screams ceased, Nagini released her, and the Dark Lord nodded for Narcissa to collect her sister and leave. She had to charm Bellatrix’s feet to get her down the hallway and into another wing of the manor while supporting her lolling head and neck. Bellatrix’s eyes remained wide open for hours; Narcissa spent those hours wiping sweat and spit from her sister’s face. When Snape visited her, she dismissed him with a list of potions she desired but believed were useless. The fit eventually passed, but not before Narcissa began to wonder this was finally the time that she would lose her last sister.

When Bellatrix was again aware of her surroundings, she rose from the bed and approached the room’s mirror and sink opposite the bed. She leaned harshly on the porcelain, grasping it hard enough to turn her knuckles white. In the mirror staring back at her was the 25-year-old face that should only have been associated with her young, foolish, rebellious self. Instead, it was surrounded by swarming figures terrorizing every inch of the mirror – dementors, whips made of human hair and dry basilisk fangs; enchanted chains that rattled when one desired silence and were imperceptible when one needed to hear something that proved one was real instead of floating in the nothing abyss; unending silence and darkness penetrated only by wailing and the snarl of deadened Azkaban employees; ugly charms to keep her alive only for the sake of her own suffering; and all the nightmares her own sick, pureblood mind had invented. The dissonance was miserable. The tide of 14 years lapped at her mind and frayed holes in its edges and its middle, but her body refused to corroborate what had happened. She had experienced and caused more horror in her 40 odd years than ten witches should in their lifetimes all put together, and the veneer of pureblood entitlement that she had been using to hide it in her soul was torn away, laying it all bare. She vomited into the sink.

Narcissa cleaned Bellatrix up and laid with her in bed trying not to cry. Laying on her side, she curled around the woman’s back and cradled her tenderly. She buried her face into her oldest sister’s hair, a shock of platinum blond garnishing the impossibly black, frazzled curls under which cowered the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. When the blonde woman was sure she was asleep, she made for the door pausing only to light a small candle with a pinch of her fingertips. She froze when she heard Bellatrix cry out for their middle sister. 

“Andy! Andy, please…” 

Then she was silent, and Narcissa left bearing new burdens even as she shouldered up old ones she had been trying to ignore.

**

When Harry got Slughorn to tell him about horcruxes, everything changed. If he had been obsessed before, he became insufferable. His studies tanked. Conversation with him was next to impossible if it didn’t include Voldemort and the horcruxes. He spent hours with Dumbledore, always coming back to tell Ron and Hermione about memories they had watched. Ron was, of course, fascinated with each story. The whole thing made Hermione uncomfortable. She imagined others helping themselves to her memories and how self-conscious and even maybe unsafe she would feel if they could be accessed at will. Sharing them with another person voluntarily was hard enough; she wondered what it would take for her to agree to give them to an audience of tactical viewers. Maybe it was the viewers’ intent that made the difference. Maybe the content of the memories justified sharing or procuring them. Maybe viewing those memories was essential. She had plenty of excuses that never quite felt good enough.

Since the process of research tended to soother her, she spent some time in the library on the topic of memory acquisition. A couple of interdependent, musty tomes concluded that memories were private and should not be shared without the consent of the subject. Procuring memories without consent was akin to legilimency – heavily regulated within the ministry but used rather flippantly in places where old magic reigned supreme. She had a feeling that Dumbledore didn’t have much regard for ministry regulations, but she couldn’t tell if she thought that justified or not.

Harry and Ron brushed off her concerns with less attention even than they had given to her crusade for house elves’ rights. There were a few ethics questions, including this one, that the wizarding world seemed far behind the muggle world in addressing. They were generally new concepts to Ron, his family as pureblooded as they were sympathetic to muggles. Harry concerned Hermione more, since his zeal to defeat Voldemort seemed to be eclipsing his old concern for what was right. He was beginning to sound much like Dumbledore, though “all for the greater good” sounded much less righteous coming from his lips than from the headmaster’s.

She believed in Harry, though. The Order and many others had started to view him even more as a symbol of Good than as a young person deeply hurt by hatred and war and failed to distinguish between the two. Several years later, when she was hidden away in her small corner of the muggle world serving drinks to already drunk fishermen, she unhappily suspected that she had as well. She would hope that she had fought alongside him as much for their friendship and her love for him as for the salvation of the wizarding world. Presently, however, she believed in him as her stubborn, self-sacrificing friend, flatly good and deserving of peace, someone with enough heart - if not skill – to defeat Voldemort. The knowledge of the horcruxes gave the three friends hope that victory was possible so even as their lives darkened over the next year, they pressed on with purpose that they had not had before. 

**

The impetus for the legendary quest to find and destroy Voldemort’s horcruxes came not with Dumbledore’s death, as one would have expected, but with the Dursleys. Harry, ever true to his word, had not returned to Privet Drive, settling in to Grimmauld Place against Mrs. Weasley’s wishes. Not two days after the end of the semester, when Hermione, Ron, and Ginny had forced Harry into Diagon Alley for some much-needed distraction, Death Eaters attacked the Dursley Home. Mrs. Figg, at the end of their neighborhood, saw a mass of black curls saunter down the middle of the street and portkey’d to Grimmauld Place. Fortuitously, the Order was assembled for a meeting and apparated directly to the Dursleys’ to fend off the attack. The family was traumatized but physically none the worse for wear after Tonks’ quick field healing. Dudley even committed his first truly selfless act by shielding his mother’s body with his own to protect her from a stinging jinx. They decided to move immediately to northern France, and McGonagall returned a few weeks later to grace the battle-torn house with a “Condemned; Not for Resale” posting. There was no communication between the Dursleys and the wizarding world again.

An anxiety that had been lurking in the back of Hermione’s mind could no longer be ignored as she lay in bed that night. Her parents were in danger. Death Eaters were using every means to find Harry. The false attack on Sirius in the Department of Mysteries; the destruction of the Burrow during Bill and Fleur’s wedding; the visit to Harry’s old home with the Dursleys. It was only a matter of time before they tracked down her parents to seek information as to his whereabouts. She doubted that her parents would fare well against Death Eaters, and they would have no way to alert the Order of an attack. Even with protective measures, the Dursleys had been saved by the skin of their teeth due to pure luck that the Order had been assembled at Grimmauld Place. She hated the ideas that she came up with to protect them, but she hated the thoughts of what the Death Eaters might do to them more. In the very few hours she slept that night, she had nightmares that might have rivalled Harry’s.

She finally learned how to control the little birds that came when she was sad and did a fairly good job of maintaining a happy front with her parents when she went home. Her father asked once about the terrorists. She shrugged it off by turning away to make some tea, mumbling that they didn’t hear much about it at Hogwarts. She tried to go out a few times with some girls that she met out and about – which she had found rather habit forming the previous summer – but long before she could satisfy the butterflies and creeping heat in her abdomen, the feeling was replaced by a cold sweat and dread that her parents were being tortured at home. They weren’t, of course, but she soon found she couldn’t enjoy herself when she left them. In the house, her wand remained at the ready in her sleeve, deployed at the slightest unexpected sound.

When Harry asked to meet her and Ron at a little muggle coffee shop one night, she was not surprised to hear him say he would not be going back to Hogwarts and would be seeking out horcruxes to destroy instead. She was also not surprised when she and Ron so quickly asserted that they would come with him. He gave in, and they began to make their plans. At home, she shrunk any item she thought necessary – and many she didn’t – to fit in her bottomless bag. She trembled all night because of her plan, already despising herself for what she was about to do. That was the first day she hated the wizarding world.

She could not stop the birds that followed her into the kitchen that morning. Her mother gave her a worried look and a long hug. Her dad, who by now had caught on to the birds, smiled affectionately and handed her a mug of steaming coffee. They left the kitchen to sit on the couch for Saturday morning television, calling her to join them. Instead, she sat her untouched coffee on the counter, raised her wand, and steadied her breath. In slow motion, her birds morphed into foaming crests of magic that crashed into the walls as she pronounced the spell. Frames rattled as her face dissolved in each picture. She was glad she did not have to see her parents’ faces blank and unblinking and that they would not see the strength of her magic glowing in her eyes. Then she was gone, apparating into the field outside the Burrow where she knelt crying for a long time before she composed herself and let herself into the Weasleys’ home.

Since the housing market was booming and they felt they needed a change of pace in their middle age, Mr. and Mrs. Granger sold their house and moved to Sydney where they joined an already thriving dental practice. Mr. Granger became an avid New South Wales rugby fan, spending most nights with a crew at the local bar cheering the team on and fantasizing about starting fights with Queensland fans. Mrs. Granger got more into gardening and began hosting workshops on growing flowers out of season. When Mr. Granger was asked one night about his red and gold shirt with the weird emblem on it ( _How dare he wear it on a Saturday?_ “Saturday is rugby day, mate.”), he frowned for a moment before saying, “I think I picked it up in a thrift store some years back.” The first time Mrs. Granger was truly homesick, she bought a bird feeder and thought it curious how much the little sparrows that came to it meant to her.

And so, 18-year-old Hermione Granger performed her life’s greatest feat of magic with no one there to acknowledge it. The depth of her magic in that moment dove way beneath the line between good and evil, and that fact haunted her almost as much the loss of her parents. She hoped that the need for such greatness would pass and let her sink back into quiet mediocrity for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say: “one man’s fluff is another man’s character development.” Sometimes you’re trying to get a move on with your life, but Bellatrix Lestrange wakes you up in the wee hours of the morning to say, “You’re not paying enough attention to me.”
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	7. Simply, Irrefragably, Irrevocably

After the war, people told the story of the three friends’ quest for Voldemort’s horcruxes as an epic, romantic tragedy. In reality, it was miserable. It was mundane. Hour to hour, it felt meaningless. They treated each other badly and fought constantly. Many years later, a muggle movie was made about their break-in to the Lestrange vault in Gringotts, but in the moment Hermione just felt vile and afraid. The sword of Gryffindor was as heavy as it was pretentious and looked more at home in the Death Eater vault than it did in Harry’s hands. 

After a particularly nasty fight, Ron left them, claiming he no longer believed it was worth it to fight Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Hermione was equal parts furious and jealous of his ability to do so. As hopeless as their mission and the war sometimes seemed, she didn’t have the luxury of abandoning it if she wanted to remain in the wizarding world. When he came to his senses and returned, the snatchers followed closely behind. Hermione had not counted on their ability to reverse engineer her repelling charms. A spell which would have usually sent even a well-trained witch or wizard away remembering some appointment they were late for drew the ratty band straight through their wards. Hermione’s stinging jinx that disfigured Harry’s face was to no avail; they were escorted straight to the gates of Malfoy Manor. 

Narcissa Malfoy, who let them in, first regarded the snatchers with disgust, ignored Harry and Ron completely, and spared Hermione a withering glance before snapping her fingers for a house elf. “Call Draco and Bellatrix to the Great Room. Immediately.” Then to the snatchers, “You’ll proceed no further than the Great Room.”

They were pushed forward by wands poking into their lower backs and by a faintly green magic welling up from the floor. Narcissa joined her husband and son, well-practiced disinterest looking truly graceful on their faces. A loud smashing of glass made the snatchers and the three friends jump in alarm. The sound came from a figure with her back to them, curly black hair held up high on her head in a messy bun with a wand stuck through it. She was leaning forward against the mantle, one hand resting on a bottle of firewhiskey, the other still wrapped around an empty glass with a newly jagged edge. When she released it and turned towards them, Hermione saw fresh blood smeared on the glass. With her chin lifted and her hips swaying as she sauntered forward, it was clear to the three friends that Bellatrix Lestrange was much more flagrantly dangerous than Andromeda Tonks, despite their uncanny resemblance. 

“A baby Weasley and the infamous Hermione Granger.” Hermione swallowed thickly at Lestrange’s words. “It’s hard to believe this isn’t Potter - though if so he is much uglier than his father which I didn’t think that was possible. Draco! Come confirm that it’s him.”

Draco stepped hesitantly across the room and leaned forward to look at Harry. Hermione’s heart beat wildly as he searched Harry’s forehead and face. She knew exactly when recognition passed through his eyes because his jaw clenched tightly. 

“It’s hard to say…” He ventured through gritted teeth.

“Draco, be certain. Think of the family.” Lucius sputtered, his stony mask faltering.

“Shut up, fool.” Lestrange bristled at the man’s desperation. “Draco.”

“I am not sure.” He wavered, but he was saved by a shrill cry from Lestrange whose gaze had swept across the others in the room before alighting on the sword of Gryffindor in one of the snatchers’ hands.

“Where did you get that?” 

“Found it on the kids. Reckon it’s mine now.”

In a flash, Lestrange’s wand was out and spinning. A long whip sprouted from its tip and curled around the snatcher’s neck while she summoned the sword. Simultaneously, a wordless spell pinned the three friends to the wall. Quick work found the snatchers unconscious on the ground and Lestrange replacing the wand in the sprawling bun on her head, the sword thrust through the shoulder of the man who had been carrying it _into_ the stone floor. Surveying her work, the woman bent down to remove three wands stashed on the inside of the man's robe near where the sword was lodged. She examined them with little interest before tossing them carelessly on the mantle next to the alcohol.

“Narcissa, Draco, take them to the dungeon. Lucius, get lost. I don’t want to see you anymore.” The three did as she commanded without protest. Mother and son began to usher the three friends from the room as Lestrange threw back another swig from the firewhiskey bottle. “Leave Granger! We’re gonna have a chat. Girl to girl. Lock the door behind you.”

Hermione felt the most vulnerable she’d ever been when the Malfoys, Harry, and Ron were gone from the room. Lestrange approached her menacingly. Panic overtook her, and she rushed to back up, cursing when she collided with a wall. She pressed her hands flat against the stone and stood up on her toes trying to create space between her and the crazed woman who grabbed her collar and slammed her against the wall hard enough to make her see stars. Reddened silver magic swarmed from the stone behind her, around her face, and into Lestrange’s hair.

Lips inches from her own, Lestrange overly enunciated her next words with a hiss. “Listen to me very carefully, because you can’t afford to make a mistake. I am under very strict orders to torture you until you give me every piece of information the Dark Lord wants and then some."

She jerked Hermione’s collar forward and back again, pinning her further against the wall and probably bruising the back of her head. If Hermione had felt fear before in her life, this was terror. 

“You’re going to do us all a favor. Don’t fuck it up, or I’ll get to kill you. I am going to walk out of this room using the door to your left. You are going to exit through the door on the right. You’ll go to the end of the hallway. Turn right. Third door on your left. Take it, and then first door on your right. Get your friends out of the fucking dungeon and then get the fuck out of the house.”

The silvery-red magic danced between their lips, one drinking in the wisps that the other exhaled. Hermione felt like she was about to hyperventilate. 

“Out? Why?” She squeaked. It didn’t make sense to follow escape instructions from a Death Eater, but maybe it was just as good as staying for certain torture and death. “Anti-apparition wards?”

“Figure it out.” Lestrange spat. “You have fewer than five minutes before I’m back.” Then she pulled the sword of Gryffindor up from flesh and stone - which, if Hermione had the wherewithal to notice (which she didn't), she would see had begun to fuse together - and strode out of the door to the left, and clicked the lock behind her.

Hermione stumbled toward the mantle. She fumbled the wands, which were slick with the dark witch’s blood, knocking the glass to the floor where it shattered into pieces that flew as far as the opposite wall. _Move, move, move._ She cursed herself as she bounced off the table and an unresponsive snatcher on her way to the door to the right. She tried to move her wand and mouth to no avail. _Alohamora alohamora please please,_ her brain buzzed. The lock sparked, and the door fell open when she leaned against it. _Down the hallway, right turn, two no three doors left, door on the right._ She willed her legs to move faster, to work better.

This time her mouth worked, and her wand responded. She took the stairs two at a time. “Harry! Ron! Harry!” Her voice was louder than it should have been.

“Hermione? How?” Ron rushed to her, head wagging in confusion. 

Harry appeared with Luna, however, so Hermione corralled them up the stairs. “Not now. Come on. Hurry!”

They rushed through hallways, turning at random. A scream of frustration sounded not very far away, followed by increasingly louder voices. _We aren’t going to make it_ , she thought, options spinning through her brain.

“Can we apparate?” Ron gasped out.

“No. The Malfoy blood wards are up.” Hermione cried, still moving them down the hall away from the voices and footsteps somewhere behind them.

Luna’s unflappable voice piped up. “Harry, what about Dobby? Elves can apparate through blood wards.”

In Harry’s hesitant pause, Hermione heard people approaching from a new direction. They were going to be hemmed in. “Harry! Dobby!” she cried.

Dobby appeared with a crack at her call, which she did reflect on until several weeks later in their lonely tent in the forest. So did Lestrange at the end of the hallway. Her arm raised as Harry interrupted the elf’s salutation, “Dobby get us out of here!” 

Dobby’s magic reared up. Lestrange’s elbow and wrist snapped forward. A small knife spun toward them from her hand. As they disapparated, all Hermione saw was Lestrange exhaling sharply, a long curl lifting and crashing back into her face.

They buried Dobby in the sand dunes. Only Luna saw Hermione pocket the knife, which she assumed was goblin-forged due to its similarities to the sword of Gryffindor. Hermione would not meet her eyes then for fear of something having to deal with something about which she did not want to know. Luna always made her confront new magical intricacies, and Hermione was tired of learning about old, dark magic. She was tired in general.

**

The imperius curses were stronger after that, for all of them. Narcissa escaped them by making herself as uninteresting as possible; it dismayed her how easy that was for her. Lucius was not so lucky. They never discussed it, but she had the suspicion that he drew extra attention to himself to distract the Dark Lord from Draco. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t. Draco’s magic diminished at an alarming rate. It reminded her of Bellatrix before the Dark Lord’s great reveal, before his curses began to warp them further than their predispositions had. There had been a time when Bellatrix’s magic was the most frightening thing about her, when she had exerted power over groups and situations simply by being present – not unlike Andromeda. Narcissa did not know what Andromeda was like now. She did know, however, that sometimes the old Bellatrix bled through when one was least expecting it. The Dark Lord apparently did not know the eldest living Black could sometimes resist the Dark Lord’s imperius to some degree, or he surely would have crushed her. It was unclear to Narcissa – to all the Death Eaters and their families – how much of their behavior now was due to his imperius and how much came naturally to them. Perhaps it did not matter anymore. 

_It does matter_ , she thought. _It matters for Draco._ The thought of the Dark Lord consuming her son the way he had consumed the others in both the Black and Malfoy families nearly broke her sometimes, but for his sake she dared not push back. If there was evil, it was this: that she had to be complicit with it – maybe even be evil and commit her magic to choosing darkness - in order to protect her family from it. She wondered if Andromeda left because she foresaw this or if she’d just gotten lucky in her selfishness and fear.

She had been too passive back then, back when Andromeda and Bellatrix dominated the family by tangling so openly with each other and the family magic. Now she was the one who held together whatever was left of them, and she was not good at it. Now she was always picking up the pieces of her eldest sister with a sense that some were trapped in places she would never be able to reach. When Bellatrix was imperio’d she was murderous; when she was lucid, she was hollow. Narcissa did not know which was worse anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think one of the major gauntlets for bellamione stories in Hogwarts-era is what they do with Malfoy Manor, because - let’s be real – a large portion of us in the bellamione cult are here because Helena Bonham Carter’s reign at the Malfoy Manor in DH1 made us FEEL something.  
> //So here you go/sorry if you hate it/but I like it so maybe I’m not sorry/basically sorry if we don’t like the same things/let’s move on to the real story starting next chapter//
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	8. Neither the Fact of Death nor the Demons of Fear

Hermione always felt naïve when she imagined that the end of the war would come in an epic battle at Hogwarts. When it finally happened, she felt guilty for having fantasized about it so many times, like maybe she’d projected it into being. It was ugly and senseless. She had to keep reminding herself that the deaths of those around her were for the greater good of the wizarding world, but amid the fighting that idea was less than satisfactory. People became strange to her, including herself. She kissed Ron in the Chamber of Secrets with fervor. Harry showed up with Malfoy in tow, both with singed hair and smelling of smoke, oddly peaceable with one another in a lull in the fighting. Mrs. Weasley was a terror, piling up a body count everyone was later uncomfortable thinking about. McGonagall unleashed the stone soldiers and wielded Hogwarts like a mythic sorceress. Everyone, including the Order, rallied behind Neville, who stepped into the role effortlessly.

At some point in the throes of battle, Lestrange entered the Great Hall with fanfare, carelessly prancing across a long dining table, laughing maniacally while throwing deadly spells at preoccupied duelists. Reaching the end of the table, she threw a hex at Ginny who only blocked it with great effort. Mrs. Weasley must have recognized the voice because she abruptly ended her own duel with a nasty slicing jinx to a nameless Death Eater’s neck to confront the spell’s origin. Hermione had never seen – and hoped to never see again – such hate in the eyes of someone she cared about when Mrs. Weasley identified Lestrange.

“Not. My. Daughter - You bitch!” 

Mrs. Weasley rolled her wrist perfectly to throw a continuing barrage of spells at Lestrange who initially batted them off with ease. The spells kept coming, however, and she struggled to keep up. Finally, Mrs. Weasley thrust her arm forward to deliver a devastating blow.

Everyone in the vicinity of the two duelists paused to watch Lestrange lifted off the ground by the spell. Her limbs were thrust up and backwards spread eagle. Her mouth opened slightly in surprise before she burst into what looked like thousands of tiny shards of glass. The pieces exploded backwards through the air like ashes from dying fireworks. Then they froze, suspended momentarily mid-air, before they rushed back together to coalesce into a living, breathing Bellatrix Lestrange who landed back on her feet on the table.

No one moved. All were silent with stunned expressions on their faces, including Lestrange. Her charcoal eyes cast about the room while her shoulders heaved. Disbelief eclipsed her face as she recognized the lifeless body of Nymphadora Tonks on the floor nearby. Then before anyone else could move she turned on the spot and was gone in a billowing column of smoke. 

There was no time to wonder. The fighting resumed.

**

Narcissa knew it was over when Bellatrix arrived in the glade too early, stumbling to lean against a tree and catch her breath. Doubt was inscribed her face, and it did not escape the blonde woman that she uncharacteristically hid in the crowd of Death Eaters when the Dark Lord also returned to tell them they would all wait for Potter to come to them in the forest.

“Cissy,” whispered Bellatrix as she grasped the blonde’s forearm. “Draco isn’t here.” 

Narcissa confirmed that with a quick glance around the glade, panic rising in her throat. 

“Cissy. Do you ever miss Andy? Do you ever miss what we were before we corrupted ourselves?”

“I – I miss you,” she stuttered. This was not a conversation she expected to be having at this moment.

“I thought of the two of you every day I was in Azkaban. Well, every day I could think of anything.”

Narcissa could not bear it if it went on like this. _Draco, Bellatrix, Andromeda._ Was there nothing that would not be taken from her?

Harry Potter came to the glade, and the Dark Lord killed him. After riotous cheering from the crowd of Death Eaters, the Dark Lord turned to Narcissa with an uncanny grace. “Lady Malfoy. As our most esteemed healer, would you please assess the boy.”

She nodded and approached the figure crumpled on the ground. With her back to the crowd, her fingers searched his neck. She thanked her years of practiced impassibility for not jumping when a thumping pulse startled her. 

A moment’s hesitation passed, then: “Draco. Is he alive?” The figure nodded almost imperceptibly. She slowly stood while processing the information, whirled around, and delivered the most convincing lie of her life. “Dead.”

During the Dark Lord’s gloating back at the Hogwarts castle, she found Draco in the crowd of students under the entrance arch. He shuffled across the expanse to them miserably at her beckoning. She had never been more grateful for Lucius in her life than when he put a hand on both of their backs and ushered them quietly to the rear of the Death Eaters, almost waiting for the moment when Potter leapt up to duel the Dark Lord again. Lucius herded his little family urgently across the Hogwarts bridge away from the battle. They did not stop to see who would be victorious; Lucius was certain it would cost his family too much either way. The sounds of battle resumed, but no one in the Malfoy family saw the bombarda that broke upon them from behind. They pitched forward in a pile, unconscious.

Andromeda Tonks, the head healer for St. Mungo’s, received them when they were brought into the field infirmary. Lucius had been found dead, his body a shield for his wife and son. Draco was released right away to the aurors with few injuries. Andromeda struggled to keep herself together as she prepared to nurse her baby sister to enough health to be tried for war crimes by the Wizengamot. There was no together to keep herself, however, when she learned of her husband’s and daughter’s deaths several hours later. Shacklebolt himself had to usher her from the castle while McGonagall braced herself between both center pillars of the Great Hall to keep it from collapsing with the woman’s grief.

**

There were many, of course, who called for the immediate and public execution of all captured Death Eaters. When no such thing came, the aurors had to break up riots in Diagon Alley for a week until Shacklebolt was instated as Minister of Magic and held public forum for the people’s voices to be heard as part of the wizarding world’s way forward. Private militias armed with wands, debris salvaged from the DA riots, and unsanctioned dark artefacts conducted their own missions to track down Death Eaters, and many of them were successful. Shacklebolt’s diplomacy allowed the ministry to take custody of most of those captured; only Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov were confirmed to have been killed in the field. The militias and aurors searched indefatigably for Bellatrix Lestrange, but she remained at large. Those present at her duel with Molly Weasley began to doubt their memory of the dark witch’s recovery from that devastating spell; no one had seen her since she disapparated from the Great Hall.

In a rare joint maneuver, the mostly pureblood Wizengamot and a rising group of young, progressive ministry professionals lobbied for a judicial process whereby Death Eaters might avoid Azkaban or the dementor’s kiss in favor a variety of other penal options, including but not limited to permanent magical traces, rehabilitation programming, and participating in mandatory testing and research about the development of the dark arts. This sounded very promising to a wizarding world weary of death and destruction, and by the time the trials started six months later it garnered the support even of those who had been calling for swift execution. A self-congratulatory sense of righteousness spread over them all; they were already proving how morally superior the Good Side was compared to the archaic, horrific Voldemort and even Grindelwald. Something good would come from the tragedy; a new era was upon wizarding Britain.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione became almost divine to the public. They were objects of celebration and adoration everywhere they went. People who had never so much batted an eye at Hermione were requesting pictures with her and thanking her for her bravery. Many who had previously been outright hostile to the three confessed their admiration for them. The rumor mill pumped around the clock. First, Harry and Hermione were deemed hopelessly in love, and soliloquies about their cleverness and beauty graced one news outlet after another. When Harry and Ginny were finally seen regularly in public being affectionate, it became clear to everyone that it was actually Ron and Hermione who were together. Sometimes it all went to their heads; sometimes their hearts were too heavy to admit. 

Hermione, along with Luna, assisted the professors and hired firms in rebuilding Hogwarts. It went rather quickly. Sometimes she had a sense that the castle was repairing itself faster than they were. In any case, it was a bit anticlimactic when its former glory was restored. She wished there was a little more evidence of the horror that had occurred there, so that the memory of those who died would not be lost so soon. The building’s glory seemed to be a mask desperately covering sorrow and death, a new denial of that ancient magic which had consumed its subjects’ in their own darkness.

She struck a deal with McGonagall and the professors, rather like she had with her parents when she’d first gone to Hogwarts. She would complete her seventh year on her own time, as independent study. The school would not reopen until the following year, but the professors found tutoring her a welcome distraction in the meantime. She split her time between the Gryffindor dorm and the Burrow, all the while planning for how to live on her own in the wizarding world. Her supply of money from her parents was dwindling. Eventually a paid research job with Flitwick and Slughorn was offered to her, and she jumped at the chance even though she found it incredibly uninspiring.

At the time of the trials, Harry and Ron were being fast-tracked through auror training. The trio remained key witnesses throughout the trials. They sat through days of evidence, argument, prosecution, defense, appeals, and discussion in the courtroom. Even the days they weren’t asked to speak left them exhausted. Initially, Hermione thought the new judicial process was an important step forward, but over time she grew weary of the whole idea of justice, mercy, and retribution. Every decision was bad for one person and good for someone else; she wanted nothing more than to be done with it.

Narcissa and Draco Malfoy were some of the first trials. Harry testified magnificently on their behalf. Draco had not exposed him at Malfoy Manor. Draco had not committed Dumbledore’s murder when he got his chance. Draco had left the battle at Hogwarts early. The blonde man kept his eyes averted throughout his trial and spoke little but confidently when questioned. The Wizengamot voted unanimously to acquit him. 

On the day of Narcissa’s trial, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the remaining Order members who attended every trial were caught off guard to find Andromeda Tonks sitting behind their row, holding her newly adopted grandson, Teddy Tonks, Jr., on her lap. She flashed them a small smile, but the sadness did not leave her eyes. They did not know why, but they all gave her a small nod of deference when murmuring their condolences. Even with their backs to her while they faced the courtroom floor, her presence was overwhelming. The woman’s magic lapped at Hermione’s neck, flushing her with cold and warmth over and over. 

They were only distracted from her presence when Narcissa Malfoy was escorted to the defense seat. Narcissa had broken her femur fleeing Hogwarts and now walked with a brightly burnished cane. She could not hide the hitch in her step, but it somehow made her look regal – even more than before. She took her seat without lowering her head. Witnesses for and against her took the stand, the latter weaker than the former. Harry shared how she lied about his death to Voldemort in the forbidden forest, thus allowing him to surprise and beat him in the last duel. She had basically won the war for them, he said, and no one dared to contradict him. Narcissa’s eyes followed him as he left the witness stand and widened when she found Andromeda. Her jaw clenched and unclenched with an unreadable anxiety. Then she looked away and strode as quickly as she could out of the room when her acquittal was announced.

Several weeks later, Narcissa and Draco joined the audience at the trials. They were mostly silent except for once when Andromeda and her grandson approached them to exchange brief pleasantries. Tension radiated from them, but ever after that they nodded amicably to each other when entering or exiting the room.

One day, at a particularly trying time in Fenrir Greyback’s trial, they were all startled by a loud explosion as the only door in and out of the room wrenched off its hinges and spewed itself in splinters out onto the main floor. A collective gasp and not a few screams escaped from those present. Bellatrix Lestrange, face full of fury and hair billowing behind her, was taking long, purposeful steps straight toward Shacklebolt and the Chief Warlock. Shouting filled the room and spells began to fly at her from every direction. She batted them away with her bare hand as her flashing wand wove a protego, probably with a fiato duri, unlike Hermione had ever seen. Her free hand stretched streaks of lightning from it the shield she’d created and wrapped them around her body. As fervent spells from the audience flew toward it, it expanded out to seize them, immobilizing the casters’ wands in place. With her hands outstretched, she held the spherical shield crackling with electricity, sending glacial blue light illuminating fixed spell strands to the frozen wands. She rotated slowly, scanning every corner of the room with penetrating eyes and controlling every active magical impulse directed at her. Finally facing the row of war heroes, she dropped her arms and cast her wand to the floor; the protective bubble and its pulsing electricity collapsed. Her lips parted slightly, and Hermione saw a light disappear from her eyes. Within seconds dozens of spells from the wands she’d released were upon her, and she was pinned to the floor unconscious. Narcissa and Andromeda, who were seated in the same row, gripped the armrests of their chairs, backs rigid against the seat, a mixture of fear and despair on their faces.

The next day the Daily Prophet sported a photo of Lestrange’s bulbous spell with its blue strands on the Wizengamot floor under the headline, “DEATH EATER ATTACKS MINISTER OF MAGIC” and on the second page, “LESTRANGE DEFEATED BY HARRY POTTER AND AUROR TEAM” next to a picture of the dark-haired woman crumpled on the floor bleeding from the mouth. 

All sensational. All lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we say “heeeeeyyyy girl” to our three favorite pureblood women finally all in the same scene.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	9. An Eyeball Eats Even as it Incarcerates

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tonks. She isn’t going to stand trial.”

“Like hell she’s not.”

“She attacked the Minister of Magic while the Wizengamot was in session. No one will take the case.”

“Bullshit. Everyone knows she didn’t attack the Minister. She didn’t throw so much as a single offensive spell. And she surrendered. She literally threw down her wand.”

“But she was clearly making the point that she could – “

“Of course she was! She’s my bloody sister. The fuck you think she’d do?”

“Andromeda, I can’t help it. We couldn’t pay anyone enough to represent her. Even with the new system.”

“You can stick to Mrs. Tonks.” The voice dripped with scorn. “You find her a defense attorney, Parkinson. I’ll even fund it if they give it a real try. That or you can be sure I will use every means at my disposal to destroy this new judicial system. You said you’d give all the Death Eaters a ‘fair’ trial and now you get to show that you meant it.”

Hermione was visiting Harry and Ron in a lull of their auror competency exams. They hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but a belligerent Andromeda Tonks was hard to ignore.

“I can _not_ figure her out.” Ron shook his head. “Half the time she seems like the picture of benevolence. The other half the time she’s bloody mental.”

“I guess she’s still a Black at heart,” Hermione mused.

Harry frowned and rushed to defend his godfather. “Hey! Not all the Blacks are crazy.”

“Yes, they are, mate. Sirius was off his rocker. Just because he was on the Good Side doesn’t mean he wasn’t bonkers.” Ron was defending Hermione all too frequently these days, especially when there was nothing to defend. 

She worried the rumors about their relationship were going to his head and didn’t look forward to having to nip that in the bud. “Do you think they’ll find her an attorney?”

“I don’t know,” Harry reflected. “Lee Jordan mentioned a new guy from the United States who’s real keen on developing new defense strategies. He said the guy is kinda a loose cannon. Said he met him in the Cauldron months ago; he was plastered and bragging about how he could win a case even for Lestrange.”

“I guess we’ll find out. It’s almost time for you two to get back. Get out of here. Good luck.” She shooed them away and started back toward the floos, trying to politely ignore all the attention she was getting.

**

It turned out that Lee Jordan was right, and the American – Sam Salinger – took the case. Salinger apparently had been a decent quidditch player for a budding club in the States until he returned to university for law and peace conflict studies. At first, his fascination with the rise and fall of Lord Voldemort appeared no different than any other American wizarding law student, but when the news of Voldemort’s second and final death reached Cincinnati, he was on a plane to London within six hours, eager to drink in every second of the war’s aftermath and the British Ministry’s adjudication of the remaining, miserable Death Eaters. He was present at every riot and every open trial and spent his free time lurking in all sorts of establishments to learn everything there was to know about the political and social realities of wizarding Britain until there was a pretty good chance that he knew more about its climate and impacts of the war than did most British witches and wizards. In the Leaky Cauldron, he became known for his drunken rants, wit, charm, and authenticity. Not many days after Lestrange’s reappearance, he marched straight from the Cauldron after a rowdy quidditch match into the Ministry of Magic and demanded to represent the most infamous Death Eater in court. Parkinson thought him quite the American, manifesting his own, unquestioned destiny wherever he went and probably at everyone else’s expense, though the British pureblood couldn’t articulate the last part. Neither Parkinson nor Salinger elected to contact Andromeda Tonks about the defense other than to inform her that her sister would indeed stand trial before the Wizengamot.

By now, the other trials were ended. People had grown tired of reading about ex-Death Eaters being studied and rehabilitated, so the Daily Prophet had to make up other topics to report on again. Salinger’s preparation slinked on long enough for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to get used to doing other things besides attending court. Hermione finished her seventh-year studies and moved fully into the Burrow while continuing Flitwick’s research. Ron and Harry were commissioned as full-blown aurors of surprisingly high rank. Life was absolutely not normal, but at least now normal events happened.

They received their invitations for attendance (which came across more like summons) at the trial of Bellatrix Lestrange one week hence. They made the necessary arrangements, pulled out their dress robes once again, and hoped upon hope that this was the last of the misery they had to face in the public eye. Excitement and dread bore down on them. None of them would admit it, but the night before the trial they each ruminated longer than they felt they should on the mental image of dark, curly hair askew, framing a deeply satisfying, red puddle of blood on the floor trickling from full, delectable lips. 

Upon arrival they were seated in a single row spanning the distance between the defense table and the Wizengamot seats. Neville joined them, looking grim, and that didn’t make any of them feel better. Opposite them were Andromeda and her grandson separated from the Malfoys by a single empty chair. All rose for the Minister and sat unceremoniously when Salinger appeared, strutting in a muggle business suit. Lestrange shuffled in behind him all the way to the defense table; though she did not bow her head, she managed to avoid all eye contact or acknowledgment of anyone. Aurors doubled, then tripled, at every entrance. 

Salinger was milking the American: he shucked his jacket, draped it over the back of his seat, and absorbed himself in rolling up his sleeves and loosening his collar. Lestrange’s signature black skirt and corset had been replaced by new robes, which Hermione thought made her look like an actress doing a rather poor job of playing the role of Voldemort’s most notorious follower. She locked her charcoal eyes on a faraway spot on the floor and leaned with a false defiance against the arm of the chair. 

One member of the Wizengamot timidly raised her voice, “Objection, Minister. The prisoner is – she is not restrained.” 

Indeed, Lestrange was not bound at all.

“Not a worry, Minister.” Salinger cut in before directing his smooth brown eyes at the woman who spoke. His face already held a hint of glee. “I think it is clear to this audience that the defendant can perform magic restrained as well as she can unrestrained. Extra aurors have been placed around the room to assuage concerns. They will, however, not be necessary since Mrs. Lestrange will be seeking a lenient agreement with the Wizengamot, which she does not intend to jeopardize now or in the future.” 

Lestrange remained still, legs and arms crossed, eyes still on the floor despite her raised chin.

Incredulous looks plastered everyone’s faces. Shacklebolt gathered himself first and began the proceedings. The prosecution went as expected. A laundry list of grotesque crimes made Hermione try to shrink away into her mind to avoid them. The Malfoys and the Tonks’ were unreadable with their set jaws, rigid backs, and impassible eyes. So it was with Lestrange as well. For his part, Salinger looked bored, going so far as to a well-timed yawn halfway through the prosecutor’s presentation. He enlivened only when prompted to take the floor. His cunning and charisma rolled from his relaxed shoulders almost immediately, and the audience stirred with curiosity.

First, Salinger charged the prosecution rightly with providing no evidence for the vast majority of the crimes of which Lestrange was accused. The accusations just presented were soliloquies on the dark witch’s character and elaboration on rumors circulated before, during, and after the war. Only two witnesses had been produced: Ms. Figg from Privet Drive and an old friend of Frank Longbottom’s, neither of whom either gave any new information to the court. Salinger also produced documentation of the patronus of a recently retired auror stating that his department had no concrete evidence to aid the prosecution but that none would be needed to convict Lestrange. It assured the listener that the witch’s reputation alone was enough for the Wizengamot to re-sentence her to Azkaban or perhaps even finally the Dementor’s Kiss. The prosecutor shifted uncomfortably in his seat and suddenly became very engrossed in organizing his notes. Most of the Ministry officials present maintained composure, but a sense of self-conscious uneasiness spread throughout the room.

Second, Salinger argued she could not be criminally charged for escaping Azkaban since criminal charges for the break-out had been struck down as irrelevant in each previous Death Eater trial. The prosecution had been hoping that this argument would be forgotten amidst the sensationalism of the trial. However, Shacklebolt and the Chief Warlock accepted this immediately, nodding as they each made a notation with a quill in front of them. 

A small smile crept onto the young American’s lips when he announced his third argument. “As to the death of Sirius Black, proven member of the Order of the Phoenix, Bellatrix Lestrange is innocent.”

A murmur of outrage rippled through the audience. Hermione resisted replaying the event in her head, but unfortunately Salinger required them all to remember.

“I can, in fact, prove the defendant’s innocence. I have procured two memories from that fateful night. One from Mrs. Lestrange. One from Mr. Yaxley, who was also present in the Department of Mysteries.”

Lestrange stiffened and pressed three fingers to her temple by her closed eyes. Everyone else watched nervously as Salinger poured the memories in to a pensieve brought to him from a courtroom page, stirred the liquid with his wand, and whipped the liquid into the air. Two memories, clearly from different points of view, stitched themselves together in a seamless story in the middle of the floor. 

It was, in fact, exactly how Hermione remembered it. It was exactly what happened. 

_A Death Eater throwing a fruitless killing curse before being disarmed. Lestrange throwing a stupefy. Sirius floating unconscious backwards through the Veil. Harry screaming._

_A small voice escaping Lestrange’s quivering lips. “I - I killed Sirius? I killed Sirius Black. I –“_

_And then she was running. Green lights flashing all around her. Harry’s voice screaming and screaming._

The memory swirled away.

“So you see, ladies and gentleman. My client did not intend to kill Sirius Black; in fact, she experienced shock and despair at his accidental death – feelings which later made her question her allegiance to Lord Voldemort. In the event which we just observed, she used only a spell learned by all Hogwarts students in their fourth year. She used no unforgivable curses or any dark magic at all. In fact, the only person in this event who used an unforgivable curse is Harry Potter.”

The room sat stunned. Harry was gritting his teeth, muscles clenched like a deer about to flee.

Salinger’s careful next words were very soft. “And that is an important thing to remember. The mere usage of an unforgivable curse has not warranted a penalized conviction in this courtroom since the war – for anyone. Don’t worry. We are not here to accuse Harry Potter for something he did out of love for his family and for the greater good. We are here to acquit Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Lestrange shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her head conspicuously turned away from her sisters. Something was wrong, Hermione thought. Magic was draining from the dark-haired woman down into the place where her eyes were boring holes into the floor. She showed no joy, no hope, at the prospect of being acquitted. She only seemed to sink beneath the weight of an invisible thing. Something was happening that should not be.

“I will now address the crime for which Mrs. Lestrange was incarcerated in Azkaban, a crime of which she is also innocent.”'

Frank Longbottom’s friend who had taken the prosecution’s witness stand screeched in rage, and Neville shook in his seat next to Hermione. Even the Wizengamot erupted in outrage. 

“This is enough, attorney! You speak of things you know nothing about,” a man holding the Prewett seat spat.

Shacklebolt called for silence and begrudgingly indicated for Salinger to continue. 

“You see, I have also procured memories of this event again from Yaxley, Mrs. Lestrange, and from Charles Abbott, head auror at the time. I will now share these with you.” There were a few groans and exclamations, but most present were hooked and leaned in to watch as Salinger again brought memories up from the pensieve with a flourish. 

_A young Narcissa Malfoy stood in front of the Dark Lord. Severus Snape, thinner but already brooding, guarded the door. The Dark Lord flicked his wand and green sparks struck the young woman in the forehead._

_“You will do anything and everything you can to get that information for me. You’ll receive instructions as you go. Go, now!” he hissed. “Severus! I am going to the Potters. Find Bellatrix and send her to me.”_

_Narcissa’s glazed eyes slid over a very pale Snape as she stepped past him into the hallway. He followed her, calling for Bellatrix._

_A figure appeared at the end of the hallway, sporting an uncorked bottle of firewhiskey in one lazy hand. “What now, Severus? I am totally uninterested in dealing with you today.” She sloshed the liquor with a vigorous gesture. “Oh, hello, Cissy.”_

_The young woman neither answered nor looked at her. The bottle crashed to the floor as Bellatrix noticed something amiss and snatched at her sister’s robe._

_“Cissy? Cissy, look at me. What’s he done? Cissy, answer me!” There was still no response, and the blonde young woman shrugged her off and stalked away._

_“What’s he done?” Bellatrix whirled on Snape as he reached her._

_“Bellatrix, he’s asked for you to meet him at the Potters’.” Pain poured from the man’s voice._

_“What?”_

_“It’s happening tonight. We are attacking the Order members tonight. He wants you to kill Lily and James. Bellatrix, remember her. Please. I’m begging you for help - I don’t know how, but please.”_

_“Severus, what did he do to Cissy!”_

_He’s sent her to the Longbottoms. For information. But Lily - ”_

_“He imperius’d her for that?” Her face filled with fear, completely ignoring Snape’s pleas. “Fuck no no no. Cissy, come back! CISSY!”_

_Bellatrix tripped over the bottle on the floor, stumbled into the wall, and finally sprinted in the direction Narcissa had gone._

The memory fell to the floor like sand, which rose back up to form a new one in its place. Salinger was positively glowing.

_Bellatrix landed in front of the Longbottom house with her wand out. She paused, listening for something. When a muffled scream broke the silence, she barreled up the steps and into the house, unaware of the aurors apparating onto the street behind her. She followed the screams until she burst into a room with a single lightbulb on, illuminating Narcissa’s platinum hair and the wand she was twirling repeatedly between crucios. Frank and Alice Longbottom writhed on the floor in puddles of sweat, spit, and urine._

_“Cissy! CISSY! Stop. Stop!” She spun her sister around to see those still milky eyes._

_“Bella, I’m busy. Come back later.” The woman’s voice and affect were flat._

_“No, no, Cissy. Stop, this is madness. This is not you. This is him! Stop it.”_

_Narcissa shoved her away and turned back to send another arc of green light at the figures on the floor. Bellatrix pointed her wand at her sister, but her spell died on her lips because they were both hit with stupefys from aurors at the door._

The memory dissolved again and spun up into yet another. Hermione was horrified at the memories but moreso at what she was seeing in the people around her. Salinger was beaming. The Wizengamot, her friends, and others in the audience leaned forward in sick fascination. Their jaws hung open the way people gaped at monsters in muggle films, and she could already hear their prattle after the show obsessing with glee over the thing they had observed.

_In a room with no windows, Bellatrix sat on a rickety chair, hands bound to the goblin-forged desk in front of her. A greying man with an auror symbol embroidered on his robe and an Abbot crest on his conspicuously visible shirt sleeves reclined opposite her with his crossed ankles propped up on the same desk._

_“Look here, Lestrange. The Dark Lord is dead, and I am tasked with adjudicating you petulant Death Eaters. You’re mostly rabble, though I admit you’ve caused a handful of problems. The trouble you’re causing me now is that you’ve made it so complicated. There are nuances that render an easy solution to this problem impossible, but the plebeians will not understand them. I have to give them a sign of victory.”_

_“Tell them the truth. He’s dead and we are ruined. What more could they want?” She growled._

_“They need to see that their government is trustworthy and just. They need it to be inspiring – something they can believe in.”_

_“Well their government isn’t trustworthy, and they shouldn’t believe in it.”_

_He waved her off. “Someone has to go to Azkaban, Bellatrix. As it stands, the Longbottoms’ torture is the crime makes the most sense to the masses, so it has to be publicly punished.”_

_“She was under the imperius curse, Abbott! You fucking know that! The aurors can attest to it.”_

_“Yes, but that doesn’t change that she was visibly witnessed crucio’ing them into oblivion. And think of what their son will have to bear all his life.”_

_“Sending her to Azkaban for a crime she didn’t know she was committing will not make their family feel better. And think of what_ her _son would have to bear all his life.”_

_“Perhaps not. But sending someone more powerful, someone with a higher profile might…” He lifted his eyebrows at her._

_She trembled as realization dawned on her._

_“Bella, you’ve been clever enough to not get caught. You’re audacious and beautiful enough that you’ve become the public’s favorite villain. You’re also loyal to your family – loyal to a fault, so I’ve heard. You don’t want your sister to go to Azkaban. I don’t want you causing any more trouble. The people want a perpetrator punished, and they want to be able to romanticize it. It seems like there’s a fairly logical compromise to meet all our needs.” He cocked his head at her._

_She exhaled. “You are despicable. You are a hypocrite.”_

_“Sure. But you can’t deny that I’m right.” He chuckled. His good nature was grating._

_“What would you need me to do?”_

_He leaned forward, emboldened. “Stand trial for the crime. Confess to it publicly. Proclaim your devotion to the Dark Lord.”_

_She paused for a long time, looking pained. “Only if you’ll never pursue any action against her. You’ll erase it from all ministry records. You’ll wipe her memory and the memory of the aurors who arrested us.”_

_“Of course.”_

_“You’ll do it all in front of me.”_

_He smiled. “I’d hoped you say that. The Black family is always so reliable.” He snapped his fingers. A house elf appeared and disappeared again to retrieve the things he summoned._

_The aurors from the Longbottoms’ ushered an utterly downtrodden Narcissa into the room. The elf reappeared with a heavy records book. Abbott opened it, flipping nonchalantly until he found the right page. “Ah yes, here it is. ‘On October 31, 1993, Narcissa Malfoy tortured the Longbottoms to insanity with the cruciatus curse.’ But that’s not exactly how it went, is it?”_

_The aurors wrinkled their foreheads in confusion, and Narcissa raised alarmed eyes at her sister who took a deep breath to say, “No. On October 31, 1993, I, Bellatrix Lestrange, tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity with the cruciatus curse.”_

_“Pretty good,” Abbott mused to himself. He drew his wand over a line to erase it and carefully rewrote it. “See here, we agree.” He showed it to Bellatrix to read. “Again. Convince me.”_

_“On October 31, 1993, I tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity with the cruciatus curse.” She raised her voice._

_“Ah yes.” He flicked his wrist to obliviate the aurors. “Again!”_

_“Bella – “ Narcissa squeaked._

_“On October 31, 1993, I tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity with the cruciatus curse!!”_

_Abbott smiled and obliviated Narcissa who blinked several times before settling haunted, blue eyes on her sister. He called the elf again, who escorted Narcissa and the aurors out of the room._

_He stood as he said, “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Lestrange. Make sure I believe you in your trial tomorrow. I will not take more than I need, but your family’s interests are best served by making good on your end of the deal.” Then he was gone._

Salinger took his time collecting the memories back into their vials and sending the pensieve away with the page. Hermione’s heart pounded wildly in her chest as she stared across the room at the Black sisters. Narcissa looked close to death. Andromeda had flushed and was staring at Bellatrix, willing the woman to look at her, but the dark-haired witch still refused to look anywhere but the spot on the floor where her magic continued to drain in silver, red, and blue. After about a minute, Salinger turned back to the Wizengamot as though just remembering that they were there.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you must see that the Ministry’s new judiciary method has so many more advantages over the old one. It allows nuance. It helps us to be better to each other than we were before. It allows us to rightly acquit Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy since being under the imperius curses renders actions committed under it unable to be prosecuted and the use of the cruciatus curse alone does not require conviction. But this system also helps us bring to light forces that were unjustly enacted against my client by the ministry itself. Mrs. Bellatrix Lestrange spent 14 years in Azkaban for a crime she did not commit and for a confession she was forced to make in order to protect her family from another injustice – an action with many similarities to Mr. Potter’s zeal for his godfather. The Wizengamot has a chance to restore justice today. I implore you to truly face the implications of what’s been presented today as you vote on Mrs. Lestrange’s charges and sentencing.”

It was Shacklebolt who put voice to something that Hermione only just remembered concerned her. “Mr. Salinger. How did you come by these memories?”

“I exercised my full legal right as a defense attorney appointed by the Ministry of Magic to use any reasonable means to amass evidence in favor of my client’s case. I can provide documentation and permits from ministry labs, law enforcement, and the Department of Mysteries if necessary."

“Was this an agreement you made with your client?”

“She had to be convinced that this was a viable method, but I think she is now.” Salinger was smug and did not look at his client.

Shacklebolt looked unconvinced. “Mrs. Lestrange, do you have anything to say?”

The first words that Hermione had heard the woman say since the battle at Hogwarts broke a long silence. “No.” 

That was all. Lestrange had not consented. Her memories had been taken and her magic usurped by the Ministry defense against her will for the sake of Justice, capital J; for “the greater good;” for Salinger’s benefit. Multiple Ministry departments had allowed it, maybe even encouraged it. They were not so dissimilar to Abbott, manipulating justice to achieve some idyllic Good behind which the wizarding community would rally. Andromeda had been right. it was hardly about Voldemort. It was so much bigger. He had made people do horrible things, but people already wanted to do things that weren’t good, with or without dark magic. With a justice system that committed crimes against the people it protected, how could they know the difference between who wanted to do evil and who was coerced into evil except when knowing was convenient to them? Hermione felt ugly. She wanted to vomit to expel whatever thing inside her that she had in common with this.

When the day was over, she rushed from the courtroom. Back at the Burrow, she had a late-night drink with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. They avoided discussing the trial, but it was hanging over their heads and dampening the mood.

“All of that was awful,” Ginny finally said.

Harry looked in his cup. “None of it should have happened. But what can we do now?”

“It’ll work itself out,” Ron shrugged. “It has to.”

Her friends’ words made Hermione furious, but she didn’t know how to explain why to herself, much less to them. She settled for, “I can’t stand it anymore. I’m not going to the sentencing tomorrow. I need a break from it all.”

Her friends could tell she didn’t just mean a break from the trials so when they found her bed empty and belongings gone the next morning, they weren’t surprised. The note she left asked them not to look for her and that she’d owl them. It was tucked into Dumbledore’s old copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

News of Lestrange’s sentencing travelled as far as the little wizarding community nestled near the muggle fishing port in which Hermione rented a flat. The dark witch’s wand had been snapped, her magic “pruned” in the new research station, and a heavy trace placed on her. She would spend a year in a special rehabilitation facility before being released to an approved sponsor. Her travel and spending would be regulated for the rest of her life. Otherwise, she could pursue whatever she wanted - which Hermione found laughable. 

After the trial, Narcissa Malfoy was not seen in public for a long time. Draco worked and socialized in secrecy so as not draw attention to himself. Andromeda Tonks continued directing St. Mungo’s and mentoring new healers. The day Lestrange was released from the rehab program, the Daily Prophet featured a photo of Andromeda picking her up at the ministry, elegant, auburn waves shielding the free woman from the camera as they disapparated. Ron was assigned to a unit keeping a short leash on paparazzi at the Tonks residence, but the post was short-lived because Lestrange disappeared on the third day and never returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all have been so generous to me in the comments. thank you!
> 
> i'm aware that i have taken liberties with the year of the attack on the Potters. i've done this because it makes hermione's present-day more relatable to me :)
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	10. A Lived Tension between What Is and What Could Be

Hermione had never even considered working as a bartender. Her parents would probably have had a fit or two - or three or four - if they knew. It was in a muggle fishing village on the northernmost end of the Orkney Islands that she found herself bartending four nights a week. The town and its inhabitants smelled always of gutted fish, and the men who graced the bar during her shifts bore fresh stains from the docks every day. Few women regularly accompanied them; once a week a group of older women who had grown up together in the town came by to spend the entire evening carousing amongst themselves, clearly relishing the sullen glances the men threw them when they roared in laughter. She eventually took over its management since the man who owned it was a regular drunkard and knew he was running the business into the ground. After he got over his failed ambition to bed her, he decided she was uncommonly capable and deputized her, to the relief of the bar’s few, desperate employees.

In her evenings, she earned a muggle university degree in economics through distance study, mostly so she could procure massive amounts of literature through its library mail service. The librarian at the university knew her almost as well as Madam Pince had, by name if not by face. She reluctantly continued her research with Flitwick and Slughorn by owl and occasional visits in a dark pub in the wizarding community nearby, her only consistent connection with her former life. She started experimenting with properties associated with converting magical energy from one spell to another while the spell was in action, a discovery incidental to the research the professors did not find interesting enough to pursue. Besides being amusing, it also provided her with a side gig inventing new potions and altering existing ones for customers who wished to remain unidentified. She altered love potions to become effective on magical creatures, luck potions to mimic the imperius curse, magical fertilizers to change the cellular makeup of growing plants, Polyjuice to change the user’s voice in addition to their appearance. She let her disillusionment drive her into a grey area, aiding questionable characters with questionable motives, and that was enough involvement with the wizarding world for her now. She toyed a few times with using her discoveries to work on a way to reverse the obliviate spell she’d cast on her parents. She abandoned the idea each time because she didn’t know how she could possibly explain to them what had happened to her, to everyone, and why she’d done what she’d done. She feared they would be even more estranged if they remembered her and realized she wasn’t who they thought they knew.

Every now and then, an owl from wizarding London arrived for her carrying news, requests, or just prattle from one of her friends or McGonagall. She replied curtly, assuring them she was well and always disoriented the owl before she sent it back so they could not trace her. About a year after she’d left, she begrudgingly visited the Burrow to stand with Harry at his and Ginny’s wedding. She stayed long enough for the photos and one drink, disappearing before Ron could get her alone to talk. Because the Daily Prophet opined about her presence as much as it did about the actual wedding, she resolved to not return for the foreseeable future.

It was almost her 21st birthday – so she would be 22, she reminded herself – when a fisherman new to the area broke the unspoken agreement she so far had with the townspeople. She was wiping glasses behind the bar, adding pithy comments about new soccer club in Scotland, when he cocked his head at her with an uninhibited smile.

“C’mon, Hermione. How’d a pretty lass like you end up in this town? It’s a dead end, and you seem pretty smart. What’s the story? Whatcha running from?”

“It’s the dead fish,” one of her least favorite regulars slurred. “The smell really gets her going.” 

There was laughter all around, which increased when she popped him with her rag, leaving a red welt on his cheek.

“Well?” The first man prompted.

She decided to tell them the truth. “Well, there was a big fight between two powerful groups where I lived. It went on for a long time, years. In the end, a whole bunch of people on both sides died.”

“Which side were you on?”

“The side that won. We fancied ourselves the Good Guys, paragons of the Light, and we acted like we were everyone’s salvation.”

“Paragons,” one guy snorted. “Posh.” This earned him an eye roll from the young woman.

“But weren’t you?” The first man said. “If your people won, and people stopped dyin’ and getting’ hurt…”

“I don’t know. That’s the thing. People didn’t stop hurting each other. The violence didn’t end. It just became different. And it came from everyone – not just the bad guys. I didn’t want to deal with it anymore. So here I am.”

“You picked a shit place to come. Must not be quite as smart as you seem.” The smartass again.

The first man wondered aloud. “Where was this? Wouldn’t we have heard of it if it was such a big deal?”

“No.” Hermione paused. “No, it was really insular. None of us were really as important as we seemed to ourselves.”

They mercifully accepted that, and life continued uneventfully for some time more.

**

All sorts of nameless people came through her bar on their way somewhere, or on the way to nowhere – Hermione never pried. Some wanted to spill their story to a safe listener, and she was pretty good at being that for them. Some wanted to say nothing; she served them in solidarity. Two years made her rather fond of the townspeople, and she developed a sense of protectiveness for them that had been laying latent, exhausted from the war with Voldemort. Her seriousness was her most defining characteristic to him, and they came to view her as the tavern’s benevolent ruler.

One Tuesday night, after the garrulous group of women left, she was changing a few taps when she noticed a new customer at the far end of the bar by the wall. Conventionally attractive long black hair was remarkable enough in these parts, as was a woman alone in this bar. Hermione slung her rag over her shoulder and went dutifully to her. 

“What’ll you have?” she said casually.

A deep, heavy voice sent a rigid shiver up Hermione’s spine before she knew why. “Whiskey double.” None other than Bellatrix Lestrange lifted her head to make eye contact.

“On the rocks?” Hermione’s voice wavered, but she didn’t allow her face to betray her surprise and anxiety.

“No.”

Hermione poured a double shot of the only whiskey they had, willing her hand not to tremble as she placed it in front of the woman. She cursed herself for not having recognized the distinctive curly, black hair and fled to the other end of the bar to serve another customer.

Neither of them gave any indication of recognition, except that Hermione’s magic spun in a slow, gold funnel upwards around her. Her ears and cheeks burned while wondering if Lestrange could see it, and she almost missed the observation that she could neither see nor feel any of the violent, silvery-red raw magic that she associated with the woman. When she dared to look at the dark witch again, the woman was gone, payment left on the table next to the empty glass.

It bothered Hermione. Bloody Bellatrix Lestrange had waltzed right out of her past into her muggle bar, said nothing, did not even acknowledge her, and left without any explanation as to her presence whatsoever. It bothered Hermione that she was here in the islands and not in London. It bothered her that she was in the muggle world and not in a wizarding town. It bothered her that she looked exactly the same as she had two years ago before the Wizengamot. It bothered her that the woman’s eyes were hollow, and that she radiated none of her infamous magic. She almost wrote to McGonagall, then almost to Shacklebolt. She drafted a letter to Andromeda Tonks but burned it as soon as she finished it. A few days of agitation ended with her resolving to put the dark witch from her mind and carry on. However, the fates, which it took Hermione a long time to deign to believe in, would not have it that way.

Two weeks later, a riotous thunderstorm forced the boats off the water and the dockhands inside early for the day. The bar was the only truly dry place in town, so it was stuffed full of people all afternoon and all night. The owner boasted about how well his new roofing was performing in the rain. Hermione, of course, would never tell him that she had placed a waterproofing charm on it just before the downpour started.

She hardly ever payed attention to those coming in the door until they arrived at the counter, but that day she did not miss the slim figure with those distinctive curls plastered to her face by the rain. Lestrange did not leave her coat at the door, and its hem spread thick splatters of water across the floor on her way to the bar. 

“Hey, lady! Fix your coat. Someone’s gonna slip on that and die, and it’s not gonna be my fault.” The owner lifted his drunken voice.

Lestrange gave him a withering look from which he shrank. He did not pursue the matter further as she settled into the far seat against the wall.

Hermione took a deep breath, exhaled to steady herself, and approached the woman. Lestrange’s hair was sopping, and Hermione could see that the shirt under her coat was soaked, clinging to her body. She was wiping water off her face and trying to dry her hands on her pants to no avail. 

“Whiskey double?” asked Hermione, trying to pretend she wasn’t watching the woman shiver.

“Yes.” Lestrange’s teeth chattered even though they were clenched tightly.

The former Death Eater looked pathetic, Hermione thought. She wondered how long she’d spent in the rain and why she hadn’t used a water repelling charm, or just a drying charm after the fact. The Ministry’s trace for the rehabilitated Death Eaters couldn’t be so strict as to discourage simple, personal spells like those. Restricting their ability to use magic like that was basically keeping them from using magic at all. Why go through all the effort of a trace if - ?

 _That’s it._ Hermione sucked in her breath and frowned. _The Ministry said they “pruned” her magic. They cut it out. She can’t perform magic anymore, and she has no wand. She’s freezing._ She felt like some old wound opened in her body.

It shouldn’t have mattered; most people in the world spent their whole lives dealing with cold, wet clothing without spells to comfort them. Most people also weren’t murderers and serial torturers. Surely if anyone deserved to be cold and helpless, it was the woman in front of her. She told herself all these things and more, but it wasn't enough. She couldn't name what came over her, but when she placed the glass down in front of the dark-haired witch, she also laid her arm flat on the table. Her wand was concealed under her forearm and palm, the very tip steadied between two fingers pointing at the woman’s torso. Lestrange’s eyes widened at the implications of the gesture and then widened even more as a warming charm left Hermione’s wand and rushed over her. Hermione opened her mouth as if to say something but then sheathed her wand and went back to work for other customers.

“Can I get another?” Lestrange croaked hesitantly when Hermione was in her general vicinity again. 

Hermione poured it silently in front of her with her eyes still averted, then said, “It’s on the house.” 

After a bit, Lestrange left money for the first drink and let herself back out into the night.

Hermione did not love that she felt sorry for the woman, but then again she was not proud of most of things since the war.

**

It was less surprising when Lestrange returned the next week. Hermione brought her drink and pretended not to notice when the woman muttered a thank you. The men were a little rowdy that night and there were a lot of things that demanded her vigilance and heavy hand. She had long since made herself unattainable, so she simply fielded crass comments with grace and sarcasm. Most of the other women were not so lucky.

She’d stopped serving Janek early in the evening and threatened to throw him out if he became any more of a nuisance. Sullen, he began scouring the bar for some sort of amusement. His gaze landed on Lestrange sitting quietly at the counter. He made some comment to the guys around him, who began to egg him on with jeers and slaps on the back. He swaggered over to her, inserted himself between her and the next chair, and leaned on the bar expectantly. 

“Hey lady. Wha’s your name?” He slurred.

“Go away,” was the unphased reply. The dark-haired woman’s gaze was fixated on her middle finger running along the rim of her glass. Hermione instinctively moved closer to them, sensing something teetering.

“C’mon baby. Pretty ladies like you don’t come into this bar without a strong man taking care of ‘em.” He leaned in. His friends giggled.

“Fuck off.”

“Leave her alone, Janek.” Hermione warned. 

He lifted his hand to touch her waist, but that was all she needed. In a flash, he was pinned against the wall, faced smushed at a painful angle. He cried out in pain as she twisted his arm unnaturally around his own back. One hand squeezing the base of his skull hard enough to leave marks on his skin, she let out a deadly whisper that most in the room strained to hear. “I said to _fuck off_.” 

Then she released him and returned to her seat. He stumbled away with a small amount of blood scuffed across the already purpling cheek that had been pressed to the wall.

Hermione gestured to the men he’d been sitting with. “Go. All of you. Get him out of here.” 

They rushed to leave. A few minutes of whispers passed before the room regained its normal dull roar. Hermione carried a tray of clean glasses to the counter to dry next to Lestrange.

“What’re you gonna do, Granger?” Lestrange drawled. It was the first time that either of them had acknowledged the other’s identity. “You gonna report me to the Ministry?”

All the thoughts that flicked through Hermione's mind made her feel like she took a long time to respond, but the other woman didn’t notice much of a lag. “No. Serves him right. He’s a menace. Someone needed to do it.”

Lestrange chortled, and her lips cracked into a real, live smile. “Well, happy to help then.”

Hermione smirked while keeping her attention on wiping glasses. “Another drink?”

“I’ll pass tonight.” Lestrange threw some coins down on the counter and rose from her seat. “Keep the change, Granger.”

“If you come back,” Hermione’s voice stopped her. “Just call me Hermione.”

Lestrange snorted again. “Well. Then. Bellatrix.” She extended her hand across the bar. 

Incredulous, Hermione took it. A spasm traveled up her arm, but the hand remained warm, firm, and almost comforting. Then it was over. Lestrange – no, Bellatrix – wrapped herself in her coat and walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am tired and a little scattered tonight. i've spent several days ice climbing and not thinking about this story. just pulled up the chapter to edit it before posting, but in my current state i'm sure i've missed some things. take care this week.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	11. Intimation that Overwhelms and Shivers

“Why’re you here?” Bellatrix asked one day. She had returned to the bar several times. No one bothered her after the incident with Janek, and she and Hermione increasingly exchanged meaningless pleasantries.

Hermione was making new bitters – which was not unlike potioning - without looking at the witch who she thought very surely shouldn’t be sitting at her bar but was. “I could ask you the same question.”

“But that would be much less interesting than why Britain’s favorite witch is serving drinks to hopeless men in a dead-end muggle town.”

“Striking out on my own, I guess.”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “Who exactly do you think you’re fooling?"

Hermione was unsure she wanted to have this conversation with this particular woman, but after a moment she ventured softly. “The fame. The trials. The self-righteousness and grandstanding. The obsession with things that no one really understood or wanted to understand.”

“But the “Good Side” won, didn’t it? The wizarding world was saved by ‘Light’ magic.” The woman’s intonation was ambiguous.

“I guess. But we didn’t only do good. We did bad stuff too. Didn’t even refrain from using dark magic. What is good if you achieve it through evil?” This felt like an odd question to ask an ex-Death Eater.

Bellatrix leaned both elbows on the counter. “No one only does good things.”

“I suppose you’re saying no one only does bad things too.”

“I hope so, but I couldn’t say for sure.”

Hermione drained the sink while she pondered the sick irony of the situation and the woman’s seriousness. “But you’re here too. Britain’s most infamous witch is buying drinks from a mudblood in a dead-end muggle town.”

Bellatrix flinched, and Hermione immediately felt guilty for saying it even though it was true. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that now.”

“It’s fair. I deserve it.” 

That was also true, but it didn’t make her feel any better. When the woman didn’t say more, it crossed Hermione’s mind that they were maybe there for similar reasons: running from a wizarding world with which they couldn’t reconcile, hiding from the haunting effects of offenses that they had committed and that had been committed against them. The only difference was that in this world, Hermione held the upper hand – which she deserved, didn’t she?

“What about your sisters?”

“What about them?”

“You don’t want to stay with them?”

“After that trial? Are you kidding? I can’t see Narcissa.”

“But Andromeda?”

“Living as a constant burden to someone you care about is not living.” She didn’t continue, and several minutes passed without either of them speaking.

“What do you do now?” Hermione changed the subject.

“Track down people and objects. Magic and muggle. Freelancing for a private contractor. Keeps me moving, and I get paid to stay under the radar. Of course, the Ministry knows, but they haven’t stopped me yet so that’s a good sign.”

The dark-haired woman put most of her attention on delicately running her fingers along the rim of her glass, every now and then pausing to pierce the young woman with her charcoal eyes. Hermione knew subconsciously that the woman couldn’t emit magic anymore, but the way the woman’s eyes swarmed at her in those moments fooled her briefly every time. They conversed a while longer until Hermione began closing the bar. 

Bellatrix made to leave but lingered at the door for a while before saying, “Hermione…? Would you want to play wizard’s chess sometime?”

Hermione wasn’t yet used to the woman addressing her by her first name so casually. “Uh, sure. I’m pretty bad at it, though. Where…?”

“There’s a muggle coffee shop in the next town over that has a little nook where we can hide the moving pieces.”

“I know the place. Saturday… 1?” Hermione would go early to do some business with a client.

“Sure.” Bellatrix fidgeted with a zipper before leaving. 

Hermione was baffled by the undeniable lightness in her heart, but she wasn’t about to question it when it had been missing for so long.

**

Wizard’s chess became a weekly routine. Hermione, who was indeed frustratingly bad at the game, improved considerably; Bellatrix revealed herself as a sore loser when the younger woman began to beat her. Even that did not dampen their time together, however, and they found themselves thinking less about the war than either of them had since it began, which for Bellatrix was quite a long time. Hermione never asked where the woman was staying or working when she wasn’t in town, and Bellatrix never offered the information. Neither of them talked about the war, the trials, or their friends or families, and though that should have felt like a glaring hole, it did not.

Hermione looked forward to the weekends and the nights Bellatrix visited the bar. One Saturday, she forced the woman into a small clothing store to replace her only tattered outfit. _“You look like one of the rotting fish on the dock”_ earned her a light slap on the cheek, but she didn’t pause to think about how that didn’t offend her while the woman made a big to-do about picking only black items. She even coaxed the woman into the little wizarding community - under heavy glamour charms, of course - to the local pub to watch a sort of televised quidditch match. She knew _“I don’t even like quidditch – never have”_ was a lie since she remembered vividly the late nights she spent in the library appraising the Hogwarts yearbook photos of Bellatrix wearing the Slytherin quidditch captain uniform and a pure, joyous smile. She thought muggle skinny jeans, a hoodie, and boots with short heels rather suited the dark witch but that the glamour charms hiding her cascading curls, pronounced jawline, and full lips did not; she was rather embarrassed at how giddy she felt when she removed the charms back in the muggle town. 

Bellatrix started smoking cigarettes in the bar on a whim one day. Hermione commented on how muggle that was of her, to which Bellatrix replied that she only smoked when she drank in rural muggle towns (“Even more muggle,” she had quipped). Both women refused to reflect on how strange their camaraderie was, because they both were relieved to finally feel something other than damned.

One day, Hermione received two letters by owl from wizarding Britain. The first was from Shacklebolt inviting her to participate in a special ministry project. It was to be a coordinated effort between Muggle Affairs, St. Mungo’s, the Ministry of Education, and Magical Law Enforcement to prepare a new approach to relations with the muggle world and managing the ways it would affect the wizarding world both immediately and in the future. The second letter was from McGonagall imploring her to accept Shacklebolt’s proposal, assuring her that she could think of no witch or wizard more prepared for and capable of guiding the plan. Hermione truly did consider it, if only for McGonagall’s sake, before sending a letter saying as much and respectfully declining the offer.

**

It continued like that for a few months. One Tuesday night, near closing time, Bellatrix sat leaning against the wall, one knee bent with the foot on her seat, the other leg dangling lazily. Between her fingers was a careless cigarette that sloughed off ash more than she actually put it to her lips. Hermione thought the woman looked good doing it, which was the only reason she let her smoke in the bar. She personally enjoyed it, and it turned out to be good for business.

“How many of those are you smoking these days?” Hermione asked, slightly concerned but mostly out of principle.

“Not many. It’s for effect. Gives me a headache if I have more than one, honestly. Why? You worried about me?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, leaned across the bar, and removed the cigarette from the woman’s fingers to take a single draw before delicately replacing it. “You’re ridiculous.” It gave her a headache too, but the gesture felt satisfying.

“Yes, well.” Bellatrix grinned deviously, crushed the cigarette butt onto the counter despite Hermione’s protests, and made to leave. “You are clearly turning out the lights, so I’ll keep you no longer. I’ll be out in Eastern Europe the next couple weeks. Maybe I’ll swing by when I’m back.”

“Oh, you’re coming ‘back’, huh? Finding the fish smell rather cozy these days?”

“Just act like you’re happy about it.” Bellatrix zipped her hoody up and exited the building. 

Within a few minutes, Hermione closed up shop, locked the door behind her, and strolled down the street toward her flat. A thick fog lay low in the neighborhood, giving the impression that the buildings and road signs were floating. It was an uneasy tranquility, as if the town existed before evil and therefore thought itself impervious to it.

Out of the fog materialized a lamp post with something slumped at its base. Hermione’s heart sank when she recognized a very pale dark-haired woman struggling to breath, one arm stiff against the ground to hold herself up and the other pressed against her stomach.

“Bellatrix? What’s wrong?” 

Hermione rushed to kneel next to her and moved the woman’s arm. Warm stickiness dampened the woman’s ripped clothing. The first few notes of panic bubbled under her sternum. “Bella, what happened?”

Bellatrix wheezed, trying to get words out. “Shot me. With a gun.”

Hermione swung her head around, scanning for anyone else on the street. The fog obscured anything and anyone there was to find, and she could feel blood leaking into Bellatrix’s clothes. Breathing raggedly, she deployed her wand and apparated with the bleeding woman into her own living room.

She managed to get Bellatrix to the couch, where she gagged when she pushed one hand assertively down onto the wound _(thank the gods for that first aid and CPR class)_. After a minute or two, the bleeding did begin to slow, but her mind whirled in faster circles: there could be organ damage, or bleeding she couldn’t see, or a bullet in there, or soon infection. She had not been particularly skilled at healing, and even basic episkies and tergeos were escaping her right now. Trying not to let that old insecurity mix with mounting panic, she summoned soap, scissors, the knife from her room, and kitchen rags and made Bellatrix press a rag on the wound while she worked. She conjured water to pour down in mid-air like a faucet from nowhere, not realizing she hadn’t used her wand to do so. The water splashed all over the floor while she washed her hands. She didn’t even consider vanishing the water or getting a receptacle of some sort to collect it, nor did she think to stop the flow. Blue nitrile gloves bloomed from her wand to cover her hands; casting a self-sanitizing charm on them was an afterthought. She transfigured the tongs into smaller instruments that looked like ones her parents used in their dental practice, and a last minute idea sent her fumbling through her potions cabinet, trying to find something that might act as an anesthetic, or at least knock the woman out for a bit. Finding something she thought was close enough, she tapped it with her wand to adjust the type and concentrations of few ingredients and forced it down Bellatrix’ throat. The woman only weakly protested before her head lolled back on arm of the couch. 

In Hermione’s flustered problem-solving, she was unwittingly combining muggle and magical practices in an inefficient, haphazard fashion. Drawing on what little she remembered of her high school human anatomy class and the almost certainly incorrect procedures she had seen in medical dramas on TV, Hermione used the little knife to cleanly open the wound a bit more before changing tactics and attempting to accio a bullet. Nothing happened. A wave of despair washed over her as she knelt by the couch, staring at the frightening wound, her wand in one hand, an ornate knife in the other, tiny birds chirping anxiously, and an endless flow of water from the air soaking the ground around her. 

Then the knife twitched. 

_It must be in my head_ , she thought. _I’m so stressed that I’m hallucinating. I’m fucking it all up. This is not the time to lose your shit, Hermione._

It twitched again, and the butt of the handle dipped down forcefully in the direction of the wound. She had to clench it tightly to keep it from plunging. It almost whined as it wiggled in her grasp. 

_What the hell?_

She again questioned her own sanity when she slowly let the knife handle draw her hand downward. It sank down into the pulpy mess of the woman’s wound, but its urgency began to lessen with the contact. It stopped moving when it clinked into something solid that she could not see. With her free hand, she worked her fingers alongside the knife – _into a body_ , she thought and almost passed out – until they contacted something hard and unnaturally cold. She pinched her fingers around it and slid it along the knife handle up and out of the body. A bronze cylinder no bigger than the last bone in her thumb was illuminated by blue lines of electricity that crackled audibly while dancing over the object. They glowed, dulled, and repeated themselves so that the object never looked the same two seconds in a row. She slumped against the side of the couch, her head against Bellatrix’s still body. Though the whole event would become a blur in her memory, she never would forget the moment she realized the small knife in her hand was the one she’d pulled from Dobby when he died helping them escape Malfoy Manor. She had just used it to extract some malicious magic from its murderous owner, next to whom she now knelt with a cursed weapon in each hand.

The woman stirred, groggy but coherent. Hermione dropped the knife and bullet onto a table as if burned. She summoned an anti-nausea potion and another that was normally used for repairing damaged magical goods but would hopefully slow the worsening of Bellatrix’s condition while Hermione worked.

Handing it to her, she whispered, “Who were they?”

Bellatrix’s hands and lips shook trying to manage the little vial. “I don’t know. Didn’t say anything. Couldn’t see their face. But they had an auror badge.” She spoke haltingly, no hint of the normally striking red in her lips.

“An auror badge?!” Hermione looked at the bullet crackling on the table. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” The woman grimaced as she tried to adjust her position without success.

Anger rose like bile in Hermione’s throat. “An auror used a muggle weapon on you?” Bellatrix only nodded. “From the British Ministry?”

“Yes, the crest. I’ve seen it enough...”

“They didn’t say anything at all?”

“No. Appeared right out of the fog. Shot almost before I saw them.”

Hermione tried not to choke on her rage. 

“Hermione,” Bellatrix murmured. “Can you turn off the water?”

Hermione blinked at the waterfall of water next to the couch, confused as to when she had created it and why it was still running. Apparently, that was all it took for the spell to end, and the last of the water collapsed on her legs and still bloody instruments on the floor. 

Fortunately, her mind began to work efficiently again. She remembered a number of healing spells that seemed applicable and thought she could use them marginally well enough to hold Bellatrix over until she could find a real healer. Given the woman’s high-profile criminal status, treatment at St. Mungo’s or another professional medical response would require the presence of an auror team, which was now out of the question.

She made a course of action about how to order spells, potions, and muggle technique to stabilize Bellatrix while she figured out what to do next. Though she felt tireless, she found herself dozing between alarms set to signal time for a potion. Once, she awoke to a painful groan accompanying a shift in the cushion where she was resting her head. An arm slid off the couch and hung limply next to her. Turning her head only briefly to see the woman breathing deeply with her eyes closed, traces of color returning to her face, Hermione let out a heavy sigh and pulled the arm over her shoulder. She sat with it clasped to her body until the next alarm went off.

Bellatrix began to look relatively normal for someone who had experienced a such severe injury just about the same time Hermione ran out of resources to continue treating her. Hermione had stewed for hours, working hard to keep herself calm so that she wouldn’t disturb the injured woman. A million different manic options for what to do next flitted through her mind, most disposed of quickly. Antsy energy crawled under her skin, and she rubbed her eyes hard with her knuckles when she thought she saw her fingertips glowing blue. When that didn’t remove the glow, she stuffed her hands in her pockets to try to ignore them.

The clock on the wall flashed 8:00 am when Hermione placed a blood replenishing potion, an anti-infection tincture, and a cup of water with a drop of Felix Felicis in it on the table next to the woman.

“In fifteen minutes, drink the potion. 15 minutes again, then the tincture. Then sip the water until it’s gone. I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” came a reply muffled by the back of the hand Bellatrix dragged across her face to rest on her forehead.

Hermione didn’t let herself dwell on the woman’s vulnerability. Instead, she donned her wizarding robes for the first time in almost three years and steeled herself to visit the Ministry of Magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just when the ladies think they can reach homeostasis...
> 
> i have been trying a thing that i haven't yet figured out how to do well. i'm trying to make the cadence, syntax, and grammer of my writing match what is happening in the plot - e.g. where hermione is freaking out trying to do something about bellatrix, i want the writing to feel like it's scattered and choppy. idk, though.
> 
> fyi, next chapter is long by this story's standards.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	12. A Dread Hope

Ron was at the Ministry that day only to deliver his most recently sealed case to Harry after Harry got out of the meeting with the Minister. He told himself that morning – just like he did every morning – that he didn’t mind reporting to his best friend; after all, he had recommended Harry for the job when the Head Auror position opened, even if he seemed a little young for the title. Ron directed his own team, it was true, but it produced just average results. It would’ve been one thing to give said average results to an older, less personal director. It was another thing entirely to give them to his best friend and brother-in-law. Harry never indicated any disappointment in him, but it still felt rather awkward for their friendship.

Still, it was a mild morning. His team’s biggest case had been wrapped up three days ago. They’d been surprisingly efficient with documentation, and he had been able to take off the previous afternoon. A few drinks and a rowdy pick-up game of quidditch with some friends left him feeling rather light. Now, he was almost whistling strolling into the Ministry. Surprise – more surprise than when that vampire had barfed muggle condiments on his head – washed over him when a head full of light brown waves belonging to Britain’s favorite (his favorite too) and most conspicuously absent witch stepped out of a floo in front of him.

“Hermione!” He shouldered his way through a few Ministry employees crowding the walkway. “Hermione!”

She did not turn around. In fact, she seemed to walk faster, arms pumping at her sides. He had to run to catch up to her, and by the time he did people had already begun to recognize her.

“Hey, Hermione! Wait up!” He reached for her arm.

“Not now, Ron.” She shook him off without turning to look at him. A few cameras began to flash.

“Hermione, what’s up?” He had to pace quickly to keep up with her as she rounded her way towards the Minister’s offices.

“I need to speak to Shacklebolt.” People began to part in front of her, some murmuring with confusion, others calling out her name cheerfully. She gave no indication she heard them. 

Ron had to resort to following in her wake due to the thickening crowd. “He’s in a meeting right now. He’ll be done in an hour or so. Why don’t we go get a cup of tea til then?” This behavior was very unlike her, and he began to get a bad feeling.

“Nope. He’ll speak to me right now.”

Once Ron was next to her again, he hated the auror instinct requiring him to check her eyes for signs of an imperius curse. She looked perfectly lucid, but it still didn’t feel right to him. It had been a long time since he’d seen his friend, but even in the worst stress of the war her eyes hadn’t boiled like this. It made him feel more disconnected from her than all the years, kilometers, and unanswered letters had.

He paced her until they reached the front desk queue for visiting upper level Ministry officials. She marched straight past the early morning line to the revolving door in the middle of the administrative booths. She pushed through it even as he tried to grab her robes to stop her. He had to dodge one of the doors, so he was late following her out on the other side. 

A flustered administrative worker was blocking her path. “Ma’am. This is a violation of procedure. You must go back to the queue.”

“I am seeing Shacklebolt.”

“You are violating security. The Minister is seen by appointment only and only with proper documentation.”

She drew her wand, “Get out of my way.”

Ron drew his own, cursing at her. “Damn it, Hermione. You can see him in a little bit. Don’t do this.”

The official stepped out of the way of the wand pointed at him, muttering something about not getting paid enough for this, and Hermione continued forward unabated. 

“What the hell are you doing? Just wait!” Ron was struggling to bring himself to hex his friend.

The official must have pulled the alarm, because a blaring caterwaul filled the hall as they advanced toward the Minister’s front office. Four aurors rounded the corner with their wands drawn. Ron, not wishing to be seen hesitating, resolutely pointed his wand at her. “Hermione, please!”

He heard no sound come from her; her lips did not even move. She only slashed her wand through the air, and all four aurors were thrown back into the wall violently, their wands scattered about the room. _Bloody hell. When did she get that powerful?_ He stilled his wand again, afraid to draw her magic toward himself.

The Minister’s secretary knocked her chair and her nameplate (“Ms. Julia Sparks”) over in her hurry to get up from her desk when Hermione burst into her office, Ron close behind her. 

“Where’s Shacklebolt?”

“He’s in a conference,” the secretary squeaked. “You can’t come in like this! I’ll call the aurors.”

“Call them. I don’t bloody care,” Hermione headed to the door marked for conferences.

Ron glanced helplessly at the secretary as Hermione slammed the door open with such force that the doorknob left a hole in the wall behind it.

An ornate, umber table hovered above the ground. Around it leaned Shacklebolt with a calm look on his face, Harry dressed in newly tailored Head Auror robes, their old transfiguration professor who was now the Hogwarts Headmaster, and the ever-radiant Andromeda Tonks whose only display of emotion at Hermione’s entrance was to tilt her head slightly to the side.

Shacklebolt grinned. “Ms. Granger, I am glad that you’ve decided to accept our invitation. We’ll have to catch you up, but better late than never. Mr. Weasley, why don’t you join us? Ms. Sparks, please let the aurors know that they can stand down.”

Hermione ignored the Minister because her eyes had settled on Harry, who tugged at his collar, nervous under the irate glare of his friend. She strode toward him aggressively. 

“Harry. What the _hell_ is this?” She tossed a bronze cylindrical object with bright blue streaks that now made a faintly audible crackling noise.

Harry swallowed. “I – I don’t know.”

“The hell you don’t.” She now had both hands on the table, using her standing position to lean over him.

“It’s a bullet from a muggle handgun. Maybe a 9mm. Looks like it’s been heavily cursed,” an unphased voice came from Andromeda. Her face showed only mild interest, and she remained reclined in her chair with her legs crossed. Clearly, she did not share Harry’s discomfort.

“Exactly.” Hermione spared Andromeda only a brief glance before returning her attention to Harry.

“Where… where did it come from?” Harry’s voice was thick.

“I pulled it out of Bellatrix Lestrange’s bleeding stomach.”

Silence. For the first time in his life, Ron felt something pulsing in the air, a force lapping at the walls. The tension was tangible and fragile.

“What?” A small whisper escaped Andromeda’s lips. She hadn’t changed position, but something like fear washed over her face. “Is she ok?”

“She’s stable.” Hermione didn’t stop to pity the woman.

Harry squirmed under her gaze. “Look, these things happen. Lots of people are probably after Lestrange. We’ll look into it and send a healer over. Tell me - how did you find her? We’ve been searching for her for months; the trace they placed on her isn’t working as well as it ought.”

“No, Harry!” Hermione raised her voice. “You tell me why a woman who was wrongly sent to Azkaban for 14 years and whose own magic was cut out by some fucking Ministry experiment so that she can’t even defend herself against magic is laying in my living room half-dead from a wound inflicted by an enchanted muggle weapon wielded by someone with a bloody auror badge – someone who apparently reports to you!” She jabbed her finger at Harry’s newly embroidered collar. He flinched multiple times during her tirade.

“We’ll investigate it immediately, Hermione.” Shacklebolt’s calm voice broke the tension. “I’ll dispatch an interdepartmental team right now.”

“Would it be wise to wait until she’s healed?” McGonagall asked. “I’m sure Andromeda can pull one of her top healers to see her this morning before an investigation overwhelms her.”

Harry tried to abate his anxiety by snapping into action. “Ron, assemble your team. They need to be ready to go as soon as possible.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Hermione saved him. “Absolutely not. No fucking aurors are going to step foot into my house.” The force of her bitterness intimidated him further.

“I’ll go.” Andromeda spoke up. “I’ll go before we start any documentation in St. Mungo’s or the Ministry. I can work off the record until it makes sense to involve the ministry.”  
“It seems like the Ministry is already involved.” McGonagall sighed.

Hermione levelled her gaze at Andromeda; the two witches held eye contact for a long time, each sizing the other up. The older, auburn-haired woman with the overwhelming magic confused Hermione, and Hermione didn’t like to trust things that confused her.

“Please.” Andromeda’s whisper came again.

Hermione’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “I’ll send a patronus with instructions on how to arrive as soon as I’m home.” Then she whirled on the others. “Don’t any of you dare try to come or send anyone else or they’ll be ruined by the blood wards.”

Ron gaped; at which part he did not know.

“What, Ron? You think muggleborns can’t have blood wards?” Hermione’s words were biting, and Harry jumped when she directed them back at him. “Harry. I expect you to do something real about it.” 

Then she slammed the door behind her and was out of the Ministry before anyone moved to stop her.

**

Andromeda did exactly as she was instructed and arrived less than an hour later. She practically floated out of the fireplace unruffled, none the worse for wear even though Hermione had been roughed up by her own floo route more than once. 

“Impressive. That path would be very challenging to trace. But you said there were wards…?”

“They begin some ways back in the route; I adjusted them for you.” They began in the stone oven built into the kitchen wall at the bar, but she wasn’t about to share that information. Andromeda seemed trustworthy, but Hermione still wary of her.

“Where is she?”

Hermione led the older woman to her bedroom where she had just levitated Bellatrix onto the bed. She hadn’t told Bellatrix that Andromeda was coming – only that she had found a trustworthy healer and, yes, it was absolutely necessary. She didn’t know how to tell the dark-haired woman, marooned and lonely in an unforeseen phase of life, that the healer was her estranged sister, and she was anxious about what would happen when she found out.

Andromeda was as good as her reputation, though, and when she entered the room she went right to work without hesitation or fanfare. Everything was as professional, organized, and as polite as if she had been attending to the someone as important and unfamiliar as the muggle prime minister. She was gentle but firm with her hands and her wand - two things Hermione had not been. Her demeanor helped Bellatrix, it seemed, because the injured woman gave only one weak squeak (“Andy!”), which could have been in either protest or relief. For her part, Andromeda gave no indication of the multitude of emotions that Hermione was sure the woman was experiencing. It was a warm, comfortable magic that settled over the room until the healer turned to her.

“Would you make a cup of tea?”

“Um, sure.” Hermione was caught off guard by such a simple request. She went into the kitchen to boil water. As the bubbles began to roll, she was startled by a tired voice behind her.

“We need to talk a minute.” Andromeda wore a pinched look on her face that has been hidden in the bedroom. She was obviously worried.

“Of course.”

“We need to get Narcissa.”

Hermione nearly dropped the teapot. “Narcissa _Malfoy_? Why?”

“She is the best healer I’ve ever known. Significantly better than I am. Always has been.”

That unexpected revelation was hard for Hermione to comprehend. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s definitely that bad. I could maybe make it work, but Narcissa would be much more likely to be successful.”

“She’s not going to want her to come.” Hermione remembered Bellatrix’ comments about her youngest sister and the trials.

“I know.” Andromeda rubbed her face with both hands. “It just has to be done. It has to be Narcissa.”

“What’s so bad that it has to be her?”

“I haven’t worked on any wound with that dark of magic since the first attack on the Order members.” Andromeda paused, and Hermione wondered if she had cared for the Longbottoms. “Narcissa might know more about healing wounds from dark magic than anyone else…maybe anyone alive right now. There hasn’t been a wizard like the Dark Lord anywhere in the world for a while. That we know of.”

“She healed…. For the Death Eaters?”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it. She healed some of our worst too.”

“What do you mean?”

“We sent Bill Weasley to her after his run-in with Greyback. Werewolf attack mixed with dark magic was pretty brutal. Bill doesn’t remember. He was obliviated.”

“You asked the wife of Lucius Malfoy to heal Bill Weasley?” Hermione struggled to process what she was hearing.

“I don’t think she is the person you assume she is.”

“Who else knew?”

Andromeda shrugged. “Snape. Dumbledore, I suppose. A couple of my best healers at St. Mungo’s. Don’t look at me like that, Hermione. War was terrible. All I wanted was fewer terrible things to happen to fewer people.”

There was a lull before Hermione said, “So when are you going to tell Bellatrix?”

“I guess now. I’ll send a patronus to Narcissa once I’m fairly sure Bella won’t do anything stupid. Will you manage the wards for her?”

“Yes.”

**

Hermione didn’t wait to hear the results from Andromeda’s conversation with her sister. Instead, she surprised herself by donning her robes for the second time that day and apparated to Malfoy Manor. She felt much less confident knocking on the Malfoy gates than she had storming the Ministry. She announced herself with her wand out but not in an active stance, aware that she certainly was being watched by someone in the house if not by the house itself. 

A house elf who looked uncomfortably like Dobby peered through the gate. “State your business,” it growled.

“Hermione Granger here to see Narcissa Malfoy on behalf of her sister.”

“And your sister’s name is?”

She coughed, “No, I’m here for Lady Malfoy’s sister.” She hoped it wasn’t a mistake to lead with this.

The elf curled its lip, though not in disgust, and disappeared into the building. Shortly, a steady clicking could be heard in the entrance, and the gates in front of Hermione swung open without warning. She licked her lips, reminding herself of her strength, and watched Narcissa Malfoy come into view. The woman was wearing a long grey dress with fur-lined black robes wrapped around her upper body. Hermione refused to wonder about the creature from which that fur came. A distinct rhythm of clip-clopping accompanied her gait. Every other footstep was always punctuated by the hollow sound of her cane striking the floor. Her eyes were locked on Hermione, much as they had been on Platform 9 ¾ so many years ago. The woman was unreadable.

She came to a stop, looking down her nose and three steps at Hermione. “Ms. Granger.”

“Mrs. Malfoy.”

“I assume you’re not here to exchange pleasantries.”

“Yes, I….” Hermione hadn’t prepared herself for this conversation the way she had for the one in the Ministry that morning. 

Narcissa lifted her chin ever so slightly and began to turn back toward the house. “It seems you’re wasting my time.”

“Andromeda is about to send you a patronus.” Hermione blurted. The blonde woman froze on the landing, back still to Hermione. “Asking for your help.” 

“My help?” It sounded like the woman facing away from her snorted.

“It’s Bellatrix. She’s injured. It’s bad. Andromeda said you’re maybe the only one who can really treat her.”

Narcissa’s squared shoulders turned slowly, supported by the cane. “She sent you?”

“Not exactly.” Hermione threw all her eggs in one basket. “I’m just here to ask you to do what she asks, if only this once, and save Bellatrix.”

The woman’s icy gaze gave the impression that she was trying to penetrate Hermione’s mind, but she felt no probe or anything else that suggested her mind was being attacked. Perhaps the woman’s curiosity was simply that fierce. 

“Where is she?”

“They’re at my house.”

“Both of my sisters… at your house?”

Hermione nodded, her throat dry. At that moment, an iridescent kelpie galloped through the gates, its streaming mane whipping with the tug of the wards. Andromeda’s urgent voice rang out from it pleading with her younger sister, ending with the promise that Hermione would be in touch with instructions on how to get to them if she agreed to help.

The blonde woman was silent for almost a whole minute after the kelpie dissolved into wisps. Then without changing her expression, she said, “Wait here. I will gather my things.” The woman left her on the front steps of the manor but returned rather quickly for someone who walked with a limp, a small bag in tow. “You’ll apparate me through your wards.” 

It was not a question, but Hermione answered it anyway. “Yes.” 

She felt a small twinge of pride that such a notorious pureblood assumed she had blood wards at her little muggle flat. Narcissa Malfoy placed her hand in the crook of Hermione Granger’s arm, and they disappeared from the manor steps.

**

Hermione felt out of place in her own home. Six months ago, any one of the Black sisters in her home would have been unthinkable; now Narcissa Malfoy, Andromeda Tonks, and Bellatrix Lestrange took up all the physical and emotional space in her bedroom, the heads of the first two close together while they worked perfectly in sync. She had not accompanied Narcissa into the room when they arrived; she couldn’t even imagine the reunion between the three, especially considering the circumstances. Time had passed without any word, so she eventually let herself in to bring them tea. When Bellatrix beckoned for her to stay, she summoned a small chair to sit next to the head of the bed. Hermione saw both of Bellatrix’s sisters register when she clenched Hermione’s hand during a painful spell, but their eyes did not linger. They said nothing, so Hermione stayed put. Narcissa _was_ uncommonly talented. She had as much poise and attention to detail in her hands as she did in social interaction, perhaps more. She and Andromeda worked mostly in silence, the latter handing the blonde witch a potion or an unknown instrument at different times without so much as a word or eye contact between the two. Hermione felt as if a great body of water were settling peacefully around them, stirring only to remind her of its power with a rumble every now and then. When Bellatrix seemed to fall into a light sleep, she excused herself from the room just to escape the weight of the sisters’ chemistry.

Narcissa and Andromeda emerged about an hour later to a much cleaner living room and kitchen. The woman with the auburn hair lifted herself to sit on the counter and rested her head back on the cabinet. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. The blonde sister reached for the teapot still steaming on the stove. Right before grabbing the handle, she cast a glance at Hermione and asked, “May I?”

Hermione nodded. “How is she?”

Narcissa filled a mug before answering. “She will be ok. I wasn’t sure at first, but I don’t think she’ll have much more extraordinary trouble.”

“She _is_ extraordinary trouble.” Andromeda didn’t open her eyes. Narcissa sniffed into her cup to hide an untimely snort.

Hermione didn’t find it amusing yet. “What was it?”

“Basically, a curse that seemed to be designed to turn flesh into mineral compounds. The bullet tore open significant amounts of tissue so that the curse could attach itself to vulnerable cells. Blood vessels in her abdominal organs were beginning to mineralize inappropriately.”

“Shit.” Hermione wasn’t sure what appropriate mineralization would be in this situation, but that didn’t lessen the hellishness of the idea.

“Have you ever seen anything like it before, Cissy?” Andromeda asked.

“No. None of the Dark Lord’s followers attempted high level spell engineering with dark magic. Not really even the Dark Lord. He was too concerned with dramatic spellwork. Other people’s deaths were not actually that important to him, just incidental to his purposes.” Neither of the other women in the room knew how to respond to Narcissa freely discussing the late Dark Lord. He had been a fact of her life in a way they could not comprehend

Hermione ventured an indirect question. “I found it because of a little goblin knife. It seemed like drew itself to the bullet of its own accord.” 

Narcissa looked at her sharply. “Where did you get the knife?”

“It’s hers.” Hermione was not sure she wanted the woman to know she had had a Black family object in her possession for years.

“A long time ago, goblins forged objects for the Sacred 28, specially bound to each of the houses. They obey their masters only.”

“Like the sword of Gryffindor,” Hermione mused. 

She also recalled her conversation with Sirius about the pureblood estates alive and obeying a master. How had muggleborn witches and wizards ever gained any traction in the wizarding world? The old pureblood families had rigged everything in their favor so long ago. It was so frustrating that the purebloods probably hadn’t even truly understood what they were doing and its implications for the future.

“Yes - although the sword of Gryffindor has been mythologized to the point of limiting its capacity to serve those who wield it. A well cared for goblin object is more active than passive; it could – can – evaluate the magic in their immediate vicinity to assess for danger to their masters as well as opportunities to enact offensive and defensive magic.” Narcissa was clearly having mixed feelings about the younger woman.

“Cissy. Thank you for coming.” Andromeda’s whisper ended their tense exchange. One tear trailed out of the corner of her left eye. It ran to her chin, down her neck, and disappeared somewhere around her collarbone.

Narcissa spoke even more quietly than her sister. “Thank you for asking.” Hermione felt like she was intruding, but the blonde woman raised her head to look at her. “I suppose I should be thanking you too.” 

“Well, I, um, I’m just grateful I was there. And that both of you came so quickly.”

“Ms. Granger, I don’t know how you became the person who found my sister and for whom she kept asking for while being treated.” Those blue eyes were piercing her. “But I do hope you’ll be discrete about what’s happened here. And about any other information you have about her.”

“Hermione’s been discrete for years, Cissy. She’s been harder to get a hold of than you since the trials.”

“I’m not hard to get a hold of, Andy. You can just walk right up to my gate any time, and a house elf will answer in seconds.”

“If someone were to come looking, they’d want to talk to you, not a house elf. That’s kind of the point.”

“What exactly would you have done if you were in my situation after Bella’s trial?” Narcissa hissed with both anger and pain.

Andromeda was abashed and was not brave enough to say anything else to her sister about that. She changed the subject. “That reminds me. Where the hell are we going to put her?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s going to be recovering for a while, and there’s clearly someone out for blood.”

“It could’ve been a one off.”

“C’mon, Cissy. Playing daft doesn’t suit you.”

“Fine. So she needs to be somewhere safer than she has been.”

“Hermione, do you know where she has been staying?”

“No. I’ve never asked, and she doesn’t say.” It felt strange to admit her deliberate ignorance to the sisters, but it didn’t seem to bother them. “She comes through town once or twice a week these days.”

Andromeda narrowed her eyes to look at her younger sister. “What if she stayed with you?”

“Absolutely not. The media is bad enough there already. Neither she nor I would get any peace. Not to mention Draco. The rumors would be outrageous.”

“The rumors will always be outrageous, Cissy. Why not make them worthwhile?”

“I don’t hear you offering your house.”

“I already did once. She left within days.” Andromeda said painfully. “There’s too much baggage there, and you know it.”

“Don’t make excuses, Andy. You’re the one who - ”

“I don’t want to do this right now.” The two faced off, jaws set squarely and eyes blazing. Andromeda spoke again after a moment. “She could go home…”

“To the Black Manor??”

“Think about it. The blood wards are already in place; hardly anyone can access it. The house elves are still there; they love her. There’s plenty to do to stay occupied. We could visit her whenever.”

“We could visit her? At the Black Manor?” Narcissa let out an incredulous laugh. “You’ve changed your tune a bit, haven’t you?”

“Merlin! Give it a rest, Cissy! I fucked up. I knew it a long time ago. I thought I was all out of chances to do something about it, so I’m not going to give this one up so easily.”

Narcissa sighed and eyed her desperate middle sister. “She might refuse.”

“Me or the manor?”

“I think… I think just the manor.”

Narcissa’s sudden gentleness and Andromeda’s vulnerability made the air thick. They seemed to have forgotten Hermione was there. She felt increasingly awkward but couldn’t figure a way out of the situation.

“How long can she stay here, Hermione?” Andromeda startled her. 

“Uh, I guess, well, ah – how long would you need?”

“A week or two at most.” Narcissa said. “She won’t be able to travel for a few days and shouldn’t for a while after that. I think I can work something out for her by that time though. She seems comfortable enough with you.” They didn’t ask if Hermione was comfortable with Bellatrix.

“Ok, that’s fine.” There was one thing still bothering her. “Andromeda, what’s the Ministry going to do?”

The auburn-haired woman sighed. “Probably nothing sufficient. On one hand, I want them to pull every resource to track down the person who did this. On the other, I don’t want any word to get out because the headache that would cause would be miserable.”

“Don’t file an official report yet.” Narcissa interrupted. “We may be able to come up with an alternative that will safeguard her and us better than the Ministry would.” _We, us, better, safeguard, alternative_ – so much was packed into that sentence that neither Andromeda nor Hermione were ready for. 

Several years ago, this would have bothered Hermione endlessly. Now, however, she _did_ doubt the Ministry’s ability and willingness to address the situation competently, though she was still dubious about Narcissa Malfoy’s “alternative.” After they hashed out a few more practical details, Hermione left the two women to say goodbye to their sister and collect their things before helping them apparate through her wards to a bus station in Dover. She checked on a sleeping Bellatrix one more time before flopping down on the couch. It had been a very long day, and she was asleep instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CALLING ANY ARTISTS: re: @AncientUrn’s comment on chapter 10 on ffn (cross-posted) about drawing Hermione and Bellatrix in Hermione’s seedy muggle tavern, I would be so delighted if someone was interested in doing that. I’m thinking the picture of Bella leaned lazily against the wall while Hermione leans over the bar to take the cigarette from her – or I guess whatever actually inspires you in those scenes. I would full-on paypal/venmo you for that.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	13. Exorcism and Apostasy

The short weeks that Bellatrix stayed at Hermione’s house seemed as long as the last few months that they’d known each other. The dark-haired woman improved marvelously, a testament to either her stubbornness or Narcissa’s skill or both. Andromeda stopped by twice to check on her; Hermione had the distinct impression she was being checked on too.

In the morning, Hermione would awake on the couch, creep to her room, and try not to disturb the sleeping woman while getting ready for the day. Mostly she was successful. She hadn’t had a television since she lived with her parents, but she bought one for Bellatrix to watch during the day. After Hermione got off work, they would talk for a while or she would do some routine healing spells and potions from the list that Narcissa had detailed for them. 

One night, she served Bellatrix a large draught of a potion known as much for the deep sleep and vivid dreams it caused as it was for its cell regeneration. The woman’s eyelids grew heavy quickly, and Hermione was still by the bedside when she slipped her hand into Hermione’s with her fingertips resting on the inside of her wrist.

“Stay.” Bellatrix’s said thickly. “Just for a little bit.” When Hermione summoned chair, the hand tugged lightly on her. “Up here, please.”

Hermione was flustered but crawled onto the bed anyway. She balanced precariously on her side on the tiny sliver of mattress available to her to avoid touching the other woman. The groggy figure, however, shifted and relaxed so that her hip sank into Hermione’s thighs, who tried not to move.

“Hermione, don’t forget to breathe.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if she was on fire with embarrassment or something else and was afraid her pounding heart would keep the woman awake. After only a few minutes, however, the woman’s breathing grew deep and regular, and the peacefulness of sleep settled on the room. A single, dark curl had fallen across her face; caught in her eyelashes, it was about to tickle her nostril. Instinctively, Hermione gently lifted the curl from the woman’s face and tucked it behind her ear, her hand lingering just long enough for her to feel the need to snatch it away quickly. She extracted herself from the bed, unaware of the small smile that flitted across the older woman’s lips as she exited the room.

The next morning, Bellatrix hobbled from the bed to the kitchen where Hermione was deeply concentrated on drawing strands of milky liquid from a small bottle with her wand. She watched the young woman for a bit with amusement before she cleared her throat and said, “Tele is rubbish, you know.”

Hermione nearly dropped the bottle. “Geez, give a girl a warning. Should you be up out of bed?”

“I’ve been warning you with my presence for nearly two whole minutes now.” Bellatrix smirked. “And I’m feeling quite well today so I figured I’d take advantage of it.”

“If you think you’re going out of this house – “

“I wouldn’t dare. I’d have to deal with you and both my sisters, and I assure you I don’t need that headache on top of everything else. What are you working on?”

“My side gig.”

“Not just a bartender, I see. War heroes really do go above and beyond.”

“Wow, I didn’t hope you’d be more rude to me after being pulled back from the brink of death. Normally that makes people more appreciative of those around them.” Hermione didn’t look away from her project.

“Oh, come off it. What’s your little experiment going to do?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Well, it’s clearly a magical adjustment of some sort. I would guess – “

“I don’t want you to guess, and I’m not going to tell you. It’s part of the agreement I make with my clients.”

Bellatrix smiled with pleasure. “Delightful. You’re full of surprises. I won’t pry anymore.”

Hermione didn’t send her off, and when Bellatrix brought tea to the table she ceased working and put it all away. Each day after that, the dark-haired woman flicked through one of the many muggle books from the shelves while Hermione worked in silence until tea appeared in front of her. She began to look forward to the interruption. Her mind and body attuned to the woman’s movements, aware of every little sound she made in the kitchen – clinking glasses, clicking stove knobs, the calculated moment when the water was taken off the burner before it truly started to boil, tiny curses muttered under breath when something clattered to the floor, pronounced exhalations that she shouldn’t have been able to predict. The woman slouched gingerly when she sat, whether it was to intrude into Hermione’s work or to settle on the couch with a book. She sometimes – but not always – twirled a loose curl in one hand while she read, and sometimes in the middle of a page she wrinkled her forehead with closed eyes before continuing to read. Whenever she put a hand down, she almost always led with her pinky, placing her fingers down one at a time in order, including her thumb, before settling the palm flat. She crossed her arms when she was pleased, and when she was really interested in something, she showed it by leaning forward with her lips barely parted.

Hermione had never _noticed_ so much about a person. It was thrilling simply to notice and not react, a feeling she had not experienced before. That’s why she knew something was different when Bellatrix received her sisters’ suggestion to move back into the Black Manor. The woman brooded alone for several hours until she emerged dressed in robes that Narcissa had left for her.

Hermione looked up from her work, only just discovering she had been dreading this. “So you’re going then?”

“Not yet.” Bellatrix shook her head. “I’m just trying to see if I can stand wearing robes again.”

“The wards might kick you out if you arrive wearing muggle clothes.” Hermione quipped.

“Clever.” Bellatrix made a face. “It makes sense for me to go there. It is mine after all. It’ll just waste away unless I give at least some life to it, even if I can’t engage its magic anymore.”

Hermione wondered if Bellatrix would be the one to waste away if she returned. It also had not crossed her mind that the house might have lost its master when Bellatrix’ magic was removed. What happened when a family’s magic lay unclaimed and untethered?

“This is just so different that when you said you couldn’t see either Narcissa or Andromeda after the trials. It wasn’t even that long ago that you said that.”

“That’s fair. There was just something about being around them together that changes things.” Hermione couldn’t deny that but was unwilling to acquiesce to the dark-haired witch. 

“I can see you’re skeptical. I know what I’m doing.”

“I just don’t see how it’s better than other options.”

“Returning to my childhood home? Hermione, I know you think being a part of a pureblood family is horrific, but it mostly hasn’t been. It’s also not a choice.”

“Andromeda sure makes it seem like it.”

“Andy was selfish. Still is. That’s how you know she’s one of us.” Bellatrix winked, but her face betrayed her pain.

“Leaving hatred and bigotry isn’t selfish, Bella. Looking down on people for their blood status is. What is the family motto again? _Toujours pur_?” Hermione didn’t know why she was unleashing her bitterness now. It shouldn’t matter that this woman, the ex-Death Eater, return to her pureblood life and privilege.

Bellatrix sighed. “You’re right. Blood status doesn’t matter. It doesn’t now, and it didn’t then. Our family motto is a farce.”

“How can you say that now, after all that time and energy spent hurting people?”

“Blood status was just an ugly excuse for the old families with disintegrating power and wealth to feel good about releasing their dark magics. That was the great joke that the Dark Lord played on us. He didn’t need a reason to be dark, but we thought we did. He gave us a reason that catered to our insecurities.”

“You played that joke on yourself.”

“Yes, I did.” Hermione thought Bellatrix should have lowered her gaze or bowed her head in some indication of shame, but she didn’t. “I fucked up myself and my family and a whole bunch of other people.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say so she looked away. She hated that it was in the middle of this conversation about ugly aspects of Bellatrix’s past that she was realizing she didn’t want the woman to leave. “When will you go?”

“As soon as Andy’s done wrangling the Manor. The building went a little feral being unchaperoned for so long. Glad it’s her dealing with it and not me.”

Hermione remembered how Grimmauld Place had nearly burst at its seams the day Andromeda appeared in its fireplace to tell off Tonks for not being home for dinner. The memory made her glum, and she spent the rest of the day sulking in the wizarding community to get away from the dark-haired witch in her flat.

**

Bellatrix waited for Narcissa in her usual seat at Hermione’s bar the next day. The young woman mostly kept her head down while she worked. She felt Narcissa before she saw her; the glasses on her shelf twinkled in the windowless room before the door banged shut. None of the muggles in the room gave any indication they noticed, but it put her on edge. Narcissa’s heels and cane clicked on the floor; Hermione felt the sound in her bones, echoing across two decades of vivid memories that Narcissa Malfoy should not have been able to touch. The three witches exchanged curt greetings and immediately began their goodbyes.

“The Manor really is a lark.” Bellatrix said across the counter as she stood. “You ought to come see it.”

“Sure,” Hermione only raised her eyes enough to see Narcissa watching her sister curiously. 

“Thank you, Hermione.” The dark-haired woman’s voice was noticeably soft.

“Of course.”

Then the sisters lifted their chins in unison and strode out the door, and Hermione lost something inside herself. She forced her little birds upward into the ceiling so the customers wouldn’t notice them.

**

Many weeks later, Andromeda sent an owl asking to meet for lunch at a muggle café in London. Hermione obliged her but remained tight-lipped for most of the visit except to ask about the Ministry’s investigation into Bella’s shooting. Apparently, both Narcissa and Bellatrix has resisted a formal investigation until recently. Very little progress was being made because Harry had been banking on their silence up until then and was now scrambling to get his department to catch up. The rest of the Ministry was not informed with the exception of the Department of Mysteries, which was being extremely difficult to work with per usual.

“Bella said she sent you an owl.” The auburn-hair woman waited in vain for Hermione to speak. “She said you didn’t respond.”

Hermione scraped her plate with her fork before replying with a shake of her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking…as if we could be friends. I think I was just lonely. She was lonely. It was just lucky I was around when it happened.”

“Do you regret it?” Andromeda’s voice sounded like veritaserum the way Narcissa’s curiosity looked like legilimency.

“I guess not. I just feel foolish I think.”

“Why?”

“Too much happened, right? Too many terrible things happened. They did so many terrible things to people like me. It’s laughable that I even considered befriending someone like her, or vice versa. I don’t know which is crazier.”

“Yes, about the terrible things, but the choices that arise in their aftermath that aren’t necessarily the ones we prepared for. What you do doesn’t have to be what you expected to do.”

Hermione paused. “Can I ask why you didn’t want Dora to join the Order?”

It was the other woman’s turn to sigh. She put her napkin and her hands in her lap. “I lost my family to fanaticism, especially Bellatrix; I didn’t want to lose my daughter to another kind of fanaticism. But I guess there are some things you can’t escape.”

Hermione heard what Andromeda did not: the woman spoke about the House of Black as her family before she spoke about her husband and daughter. This did not seem like something she had the right to address so she returned her attention to the original conversation. “But the Order was meant to be the opposite of the Death Eaters.”

“The opposite. Exactly. It was so polarized. Light magic versus dark magic. Good versus Evil. The Order versus the Death Eaters. Dumbledore against Voldemort. It’s too easy for people who see themselves as bastions of an innate sense of morality to convince others to sacrifice themselves for an ultimate ideal like love, friendship, family…”

“Weren’t Voldemort and the Death Eaters like that too but with hate and greed?”

“In some ways. But the Dark Lord cared only for himself and his own power, and after the first few years he did little to hide that. His followers died for a waning sense of their own entitlement. They wanted – they almost needed – to use the magic that had grown dormant in their families. He was a sick promise of feeling alive and, once in, most couldn’t get out.”

“You make it sound so tragic. In the literary sense of the word.”

“It’s not. They wanted to hurt and kill. They wanted to reclaim that old, powerful magic again. At any cost. It made them ugly. But the Order wanted to destroy the concepts of darkness and evil but was too blind to realize that “dark” and “evil” were really just people. The Order defeated Voldemort and the Death Eaters, sure. The Order did nothing against the deterioration that comes from repressing the magic in your blood for centuries, so there will always be more people who ‘good’ people feel the need to defeat.”

“Deterioration?”

“Yes. I assume, based on your side projects, you know that at the most basic level magic has adverse effects on human anatomy and physiology.”

Hermione nodded, somewhat alarmed that Andromeda knew about her work.

“It has the same effect on you as a muggleborn as it does on me. But the Black family bloodline, much like the Malfoys or even the Weasleys, has stored up centuries worth of cellular degradation because of the magic we can’t or won’t use. Purebloods tend to be born with an excess of latent magic that must be converted into something else to keep it from destroying them, and most would call it dark magic.”

“And you don’t?”

“No magic is inherently dark. The witch or wizard makes it dark.”

“So what about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you do to manage your own magic, to keep it from becoming dark?” Hermione didn’t think anything about Andromeda was latent.

“I’m sure there are plenty out there who would still call me a dark witch,” the woman said with a smile that Hermione couldn’t differentiate as sad or as devious. “They’re up to something, Hermione. My sisters.”

Hermione couldn’t explain why her heart sank. “Please tell Harry this. Not me.”

“Harry will know if it’s important. It might even be good for Bellatrix; I guess for both of them.”

“Are you not involved?”

The woman sighed. “How could I be? How could I not be? This is not something I’ve figured out, Hermione.” The younger woman let her continue and didn’t mention the chemistry the three sisters exuded together. “But that’s all for now since I don’t know the details. Would you return my sister’s owl so she will stop bugging Cissy and me about it?”  
“I don’t know, Andromeda. It may be better for me to just stay away now.”

A sharp look replaced the woman’s smile. “Hermione. When I ran away with Ted, Bella saved me from my father. She burned me off the tapestry to keep him from killing me. I never once saw her again until she burst into the courtroom during the trial that day. She stayed away to protect me, but I stayed away because I was a coward.”

“You don’t seem like a coward to me.”

“It’s very easy to mistake cowardice for conviction when it comes to us purebloods. Britain’s been doing it for ages. It was just lucky that my fear made it easier to act on what I chose to believe. At least Bella never settled for such artifice.”

“Is that you trying to convince me she’s a good person and deserves my friendship?”

“Ha, no! Bellatrix is absolutely not a good person. That's what the rumors have always gotten right about her. But staying away isn’t always the answer, even when it feels like it.” The woman pulled a roughly hewn but glistening wooden sparrow from her bag and handed it to Hermione. “She made me swear to give this to you. Be careful. It’s probably a portkey, and she’s taken advantage of more than one witch in her life.”

While Hermione inspected it, Andromeda paid their bill at the counter and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The transition from this chapter to the next moves the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black fully into the center of this story. From here on out, you’ll get more Bella&Andy&Cissy than you hoped for.  
> Herein also begins an experimental exploration of a certain brand of existential angst. Building sexual tension to follow. I think it best when the two go together :)
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	14. Mysterium Tremendum

“It doesn’t speak well of you that you can only handle being around her when she’s sick and not when she’s well.”

“I recognize that it’s problematic, but I can’t handle being around her ever, Cissy. You remember what it was like.” Andromeda hated the words that spilled from her lips.

Truthfully, the few meetings Narcissa had arranged for the three of them had gone relatively well. They were awkward at first, especially Andromeda, but Bellatrix treated her just like she had back when they were barely adults. Their signature banter began slowly at first, but it was beginning to feel more and more normal. 

Now two younger Black sisters were facing off in the atrium of the Malfoy Manor. The auburn-haired woman believed she was at odds with her younger sister, but Narcissa knew they wanted the same thing. Andromeda had already restored to the Black Manor the glory it had before the Dark Lord had begun to frequent it. The house had literally sung with joy while the middle Black sister’s face shone with joy she probably didn’t know she had. There was no way Narcissa would lose this fight.

“You need to come through, Andy. We can’t be what we are supposed to be without you.”

“This is harder than I expected. Entering back into a deeply personal relationship with the two of you – especially with Bella – is much different than meeting for tea once or twice a week. You know that. In fact, how on earth can you be around her regularly without being reminded of – of – “ The middle Black sister struggled to speak about their sister’s trial, but trying to do so was distracting her from feeling so hypocritical about telling Hermione to answer Bellatrix when she hadn’t been brave enough to do so herself.

“Don’t use that against me!” Narcissa spat words laced with pain. “And don’t you dare invoke your own pain and hardship over against me either. Do you know how I survived the war? How I survived all the imperius curses? How I survived all the times Bella cried and screamed in her sleep after Azkaban and all the times my son and husband were tortured by the Dark Lord? I _outlasted_ them. I outlasted the Dark Lord himself. I outlasted evil. I’ll outlast this too. It’s not your job to interrogate or rehabilitate me. It’s your job to come back.”

“You could’ve left too, you know.”

“No, I couldn’t. Especially not after I lived through your leaving with Bella.”

“Wow. How can you think this conversation would make me feel better about trying to repair everything with the two of you?”

“You have already repaired the Manor, Andy! You are already a part of this again! And you know what? I don’t think you really ever weren’t. Bella told me your daughter called her “Aunt Bella” when they ran into each other at the Weasley raid. That’s an awfully intimate name for estranged family members.”

“I wanted Dora to know about her family.”

“’Aunt Bella!’ Like you spent holidays together!” Andromeda looked helpless while she tried to think of something to say. “She used to call for you in her sleep, you know?”

“Are you trying to guilt trip me?” 

“If it’ll get you to come back.”

“I am afraid of this!”

“Suck it up! You’re a grown woman whose been through way harder things than the vast majority of people out there. You can and deserve to be with people who still love you and people whom you still care about.”

“Goddamn you, Cissy.” Andromeda only lost fights to her sisters, and she was way out of practice dealing with that.

“That’s the Andy I remember. I expect to see you next week when we chat about what comes next.”

**

Narcissa Malfoy had been nervous to see her sisters when she accompanied Hermione Granger to her flat. She was not nervous now as she perched on her mother’s old high-backed chair stirring milk into her tea at her childhood home. She sat across from Bellatrix by the fire in the great room of the Black Manor, waiting for their middle sister to arrive via floo. Despite struggle with Andromeda’s commitment, she had successfully facilitated regular rendezvous for the three of them at the manors and one of the Black family homes in France. Even though she was clearly the one wielding control, she had been surprised by two developments. First, she felt comfortable with them – perhaps even more than before the war. Even if they were not quite as comfortable around each other, she knew being together was a relief to them all. Second, for the first time since the Dark Lord had marked Bellatrix, she felt purpose other than to protect. Almost as soon as she had left Hermione’s house, she had begun formulating a plan and planting seeds in her sisters’ minds for something new.

Their middle sister appeared in a tornado of flames, everything about her billowing, and stepped from the fireplace directly in between them. It did not escape Narcissa that Bellatrix raised lidded eyes to look Andromeda up and down once before brandishing a very full glass of firewhiskey at her.

“Andy, have a seat and a drink.” 

Andromeda took the offered glass and arranged herself in the third chair. “I’m tired of you dropping hints, Cissy. What’s your scheme?” It was just like the middle sister to skip pleasantries.

“It’s time to resurrect the Black family empire.”

“Excuse me?” Andromeda choked on her drink.

Bellatrix looked pleased. “I thought you might say that, Cissy.”

Andromeda glanced between the two of them. “Are you in on this together?”

“Not yet. Not any more than you are.” Narcissa steered the conversation. One of the most powerful of the Sacred 28, rumored to be related to Salazar Slytherin himself, the Blacks had dominated trade in northern Europe and what was now Russia for centuries. Naturally, this came with great political clout; they had collected vassals and pledges from non-magical and magical families alike (including others in the Sacred 28). Their magic was legendary, and long after the time of wielding raw magic had passed, other wizarding families still warned their children about the consequences of clashing with the Blacks as well as the merits of ingratiating themselves to them. Their tempers, proclivity for conflict, magical prowess, and inescapable charisma maintained their formidability even once the trade empire had fallen and the Wizengamot took the place of ruling lords. Despite their sympathy for dark magic, disdain for muggles, and distaste for what they saw as a rapidly declining civilization, they had provided the wizarding world with stability throughout several crises, including the throes of Grindelwald’s war. The stability was a façade, however, and generations of turmoil and self-destruction came to head in Cygnus’ and Druella’s leadership. They groveled before the Dark Lord, and he used, abused, and discarded them. The family name was tarnished and, after Sirius’ death, could not even be passed on to another generation by marriage or progeny.

“You want to save the Black family name?” Andromeda was incredulous. “This is absurd.”

“It’s not, Andy. We have a massive fortune and an entire book of vassals pledged to us by blood – all of which will be divided amongst Draco, Teddy, and _Harry Potter_ of all people when we die.”

“Why Potter?” Bellatrix asked.

“Sirius left his whole bloody inheritance to him.” Narcissa scoffed.

“Ew.”

“Why shouldn’t it be divided up?” Andromeda was still suspicious.

“Because then the Black family dies. Its accounts disappear. Its elves are re-pledged.” Both of Narcissa’s sisters winced at their only memory of an elf pledging as she continued. “It goes down in history as just another old pureblood family that collapsed because it was too weak to resist the allure of evil, too backwards to keep up with changing times.”

“All semantics about old magic aside, Cissy, that is exactly what we are.” Andromeda made a sweeping gesture around the room. A ripple in the walls followed the trail of her hand. She tried to ignore it, which made her sisters look at her with mild irritation.

“We are only that if we let ourselves be,” Narcissa asserted.

“How can we unmake the choices we’ve already made?”

“We can’t. We just make new ones. Together.”

Bellatrix smiled, listening to her sisters argue. Narcissa had already won; Andromeda was already calling the family “we” and “us.” It wouldn’t take long for her embattled sister to realize it now. 

“Cissy, our family has hurt too much. Hurt ourselves, hurt others. Maybe it’s time we just let go of the façade of greatness.”

“Then let’s stop hurting. Let’s be ourselves again. Not good. Not bad. Just who we are.”

Andromeda was covering her face with both hands, a few tears starting to peak between her fingers. “You think I didn’t want that? You think it was better for me without you both? You think I escaped it all?”

“None of us did the right thing, Andy. We’re not blaming you any more than ourselves. I’m sorry for when I’ve made it seem like I do.”

It didn’t matter to Andromeda if her younger sister was right. She just felt that she had lost too much. “Our family… our magic… it’s all – “

“Right here.” Suddenly Bellatrix was kneeling between them pulling their hands together, and once they were joined, she put arm around either sister’s neck to hold them close in an intimate embrace. Andromeda’s breath came in increasingly ragged gasps buried in Bellatrix’s shoulder. Narcissa’s free hand balled up in her shirt. Tears fell into the oldest sister’s neck, but then there were also raindrops collecting in her hair. The louder Andromeda sobbed the harder rain poured down on them. 

Bellatrix whispered, “Come home. It’s time to be together again.” 

Lightning flashed from both of her younger sisters out into the corners of the ceiling, and thunder deafened them. When the deluge finally passed, they huddled, trembling together until Narcissa snapped her fingers behind her. The fireplace roared to life. Water was sucked back up into the ceiling, and they were dry and warm in seconds.

“I suppose that’s a yes.” Andromeda sighed. She could see her own reflection in a mirror mounted on the opposite wall and thought she maybe looked as if she was setting aside a heavy burden. “A ridiculous yes.”

The dark-haired woman let out a frustrated sigh and rolled her eyes. “ _Gods_ , baby girl. What does someone have to do to convince you to do the thing you want?”

“Seriously? Unless this is all just a game, the whole idea rests on something that is impossible.” When her sisters gave no indication of understanding, Andromeda continued.. “There’s no male heir to carry on the family name.”

“Which is a stupid convention, everyone knows.” Bellatrix was still rolling her eyes.

“So the whole empire thing will die with us three regardless.” 

“Not necessarily. Our library is probably the only one west of Jerusalem since Alexandria burned down to have enough remnants of ancient near-eastern blood rituals to help us approximate a virgin birth.”

“Oh my god.”

“And Bellatrix has discovered that Hermione Granger has an unprecedented ability to engineer magic and doesn’t even know it. I’m sure she could be quite helpful,” Narcissa added.

“No way. You leave her out of this. She’s seen enough already without getting introduced to the grotesque intricacies of our family.”

“Relax, Andy. I’m just kidding about a virgin birth. You’re so uptight.” The dark-haired woman needled. “Although it’s not out of the question, I suppose.”

Narcissa wouldn’t let the point pass though. “Andy, the Black estates and Wizengamot seat will continue in the family’s name regardless of what happens. It’s written into the unbreakable contracts; I checked.” 

Bellatrix poured everyone a glass of firewhiskey and ended the banter. “So what actually is the plan, Cissy?” 

Narcissa described how she would manage their trade and financial opportunities. Draco would take over managing the Malfoy affairs. The House of Black would become the Malfoys’ biggest investor, and she would manage their circulation of profit. 

“But surely business is only part of it.” Bellatrix prompted, lobbing her youngest sister a perfect pitch with a knowing look. “What about a strategy for managing political interests and obstacles – gods know we have plenty of those.”

Narcissa delivered, even though they had not discussed this yet. “Andy will claim her rightful place as the Black family seat in the Wizengamot.”

Andromeda did spit out her drink that time. “Fuck me and Morgana! What sodding – are you shitting me – you’re insane, you cock-sucking bitch-ass bloody fucking assholes - ” They let her sputter until she ran out of profanities. 

“You’re out of practice with that, Andy, although it’s nice to hear you be yourself again.” Bellatrix tsked at her.

Andromeda ignored her. “It’s not my seat anyway. It’s Bella’s.”

“But Bella cannot hold the seat due to her sentencing.”

“Which is probably for the best anyhow.” Bellatrix was still wiping Andromeda’s drink off her face. “I’m insane, remember? And I don’t have the patience for it.”

“So if it’s going to be held, you have to do it.”

“What the hell are you two driving at?” Andromeda jumped to her feet with both fear and outrage in her eyes, something that made Narcissa have to work very hard to hide her quaking hands. “If I take the seat, then my grandson, the grandson of the muggleborn man the last head of the Black house almost killed me over, will be next in line for the seat.”

“You have a grandson. Ugh, I forget how old you are.” The oldest sister looked unimpressed.

Narcissa only nodded.

“The Black family seat! The Black empire that you’re trying to resurrect!”

“It’s a new era, Andy. It’s time for the House of Black to be new too. We spent too much time wasting ourselves away with worthless causes and fake ideals.” Narcissa was gentle again.

Andromeda shook her hands at them aggressively. “This is just a new thing. It’s just a new way to pretend that we aren’t dark and that our magic isn’t killing us.”

“I’m not arguing with that.” Narcissa sounded like she was arguing. “But if we do it this way, maybe it won’t be like that forever. The House of Black needs you, Andy. It needs the Tonks now.”

“This is unreal. You really want this.” Andromeda swung her head between her sisters.

Bellatrix’ voice was a firm whisper. “It seems like the closest thing to a right thing that we could do.”

“What about you? You’re technically the head of the family, aren’t you? How will that work?”

“Yes, but of course the Ministry keeps closer tabs on me than we’d want. So Cissy will have to manage transactions and all. And clearly any right that I deny goes immediately to you. Though I’ll be sure only to pass on the shit ones.”

“But Bella will control assets, networking, and the social space – the Black family landscape, if you will – as always.”

Andromeda snorted. “Bella’s going to play belle of the ball. How cute. It’s a good role for someone who now looks like she’s barely old enough to get into adult clubs.”

“Been at the adult clubs looking for barely-old-enough witches lately, have you, sister?”

“Don’t be a perv, Bella. Cissy, this is only going to work if she doesn’t do something fucking insane. But then again, maybe the likelihood of something truly terrible happening will decrease since she won’t be using magic.”

Bellatrix was on her in a second. “Oh, _Andromeda_ ,” she purred. “Maybe you’d like to be the first witch to feel how powerful I am without magic.” 

Andromeda shoved her off, trying to hide her reddening cheeks. “You’re wicked.”

Narcissa cracked an amused grin. She couldn’t be more pleased with how well things were going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all the things begin.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	15. The Sublime, the Terrifying Advent

If ever there was a woman at war, it was Andromeda Tonks. Very few ever noticed this fact; from the beginning it was eclipsed by her older sister. Bellatrix had not only been named for war but seemed as if the Fates had fashioned her for it with her reckless abandon, ruthless desire to dominate, love for destruction, and incomparable dueling prowess. Warrior rhetoric surrounded her early on and never let up until the Dark Lord usurped her. Andromeda always hated it and how she had to fight to be seen through it all. Narcissa, forever strikingly different from her sisters in looks and demeanor, stood out without trying. Andromeda spent most of her early years being mistaken for Bellatrix’ twin, but disappointing everyone who made the mistake because she lacked the shining liberty that characterized her sister. She was intelligent but not brilliant like Bellatrix, so she battered her way through school. She was powerful but not as skilled at controlling it as Bellatrix appeared to be, so she kept herself on a careful, short leash. The only time she’d ever beaten Bellatrix at anything was when she blacked out once in duel and came to seated on top of her older sister who was laughing hysterically while blood rushed from her nose into her mouth which was pried open by yellow and purple magic snaking from Andromeda’s hands. Andromeda had dropped both of their wands in horror and fled the room, trailing the colorful magic and her sister’s blood behind her. As too young a woman, she battled internally for years about pureblood privilege and magic before she made the decision to leave her family and run away with Ted. Every day after that, she argued with herself about returning. Only Bellatrix’ demise at the Dark Lord’s hands convinced her to stay away. When the Order re-formed, she fought with her daughter day in and day out about joining; sometimes they even came to blows about it. Dora was convinced having her mother join the Order would be a huge factor in influencing the war in their favor (incidentally, Death once tried bet the Fates the very same thing in an accidental encounter, but they wouldn’t deign to entertain the likes of him). Andromeda scorned the notion because she despised what she saw as an erroneous cause that had no conceivable victory. The day she hated herself the most was when one of their loudest arguments ended with her daughter pinned to the wall, smothered by the weight of Andromeda’s raw magic. Not long afterwards, her husband and daughter were both killed at Hogwarts, and she berated herself constantly about her complicity in a world which led to their deaths. Again, there was no way to win or end her torment.

All that to say, if there was one thing that Andromeda was confident in as she stupefied the Wizengamot security with a flick of her middle finger, released the courtroom wards with an old Black family wand signature, and bashed open the door to the Wizengamot floor, it was that no one in that room could outlast her in a battle of wills.

A gasp went up from the terraced seats. The Chief Warlock startled so violently that his hat fell off, and he knocked his quills off the desk trying to catch it. The ink pot smashed and streaked magnificently across the floor. Andromeda spared him the mercy of pretending not to notice.

“Mrs. Tonks.” The man squeaked. “I see the aurors let you in.”

“Something like that. Very easy to work with, this new crop of law enforcement.”

He blushed. “To - to what do we owe your presence today?”

“I have come to claim my seat in the Wizengamot.”

Silence, then a murmur rose through the ranks. “Mrs. Tonks…”

“I have come to claim the Black family seat, Mather.” There was more murmuring.

“But you aren’t a Black anymore,” came a man’s sleazy voice. “You are Tonks by your own admission, your own action.”

Such a comment meant she no longer had to summon the will to be menacing. It simply came to her. She found the squat man nestled on the end of the first row. She had to bend down to hiss in his face. “Mr. Bulstrode. Tonks, indeed. You would do well to keep that fact in mind, to remember that I am married to a muggleborn wizard and mother to a halfblood witch, both who died protecting far inferior families like your own from crumbling under the pureblood fantasy of a halfblood Dark Lord ready to spit out your bones when he finished consuming you.” 

The man shrank back from the magic swarming at him.

“But you are not the heir,” a wavering woman’s voice piped up further down the row. “Bellatrix is.”

Andromeda slowly paced toward the section from which the voice had come, eyes searching until she found for whom she was looking, a woman who she conveniently had planned to confront anyway. 

“Penelope.” She smiled an unfriendly smile. “As you may know, my sister finds herself indisposed, but fortunately she has been so kind as to pass her right to the family seat and alliances to me, a right which luckily includes the condition of your family’s… partnership.” 

The woman’s eyes widened and she her neck flexed as she swallowed. Andromeda withdrew a small vial from her robe and tipped it over mid-air. A long, thin strip of what looked like thick ash poured down onto the table in front of the woman. It curled itself up into the form of a tiny snake, which slithered up the woman’s arm and twice around her neck before descending over the other shoulder. It curled itself with a caress around the soft part of the woman’s wrist before sinking into her skin entirely. A coal-colored serpent tattoo remained in its place. The woman was horrified. Those around her scooted their chairs back away from the hardened stare of the Noble and Most Ancient Andromeda Tonks. 

“No one has invoked the vassalage agreements in decades, Andromeda,” the woman pleaded.

“Yes, it seems we were distracted by lesser matters for some years.” She turned abruptly to the seats in the higher terraces. “Does anyone else need to be reminded of the position and procedures of the House of Black?” She emphasized both “p” sounds while scanning the room slowly. “Then was there any other matter we needed to discuss before resuming the session?” This was directed at Mather, who searched for some non-existent form of support from those seated before shaking his head no.

“Excellent.” 

Andromeda placed one foot in front of the other slowly as she approached the steps to the terrace. Chin lifted, she narrowed her eyes at Penelope, who gulped, aware of the attention she was garnering from those around her. Gingerly, the Fawley family seat rose to her feet as the Black family seat passed her. Then did the man next to her, and the woman behind him, and the person next to her, until the entire section, approximately a third of the Wizengamot, stood silently at attention. Andromeda ascended the steps toward an ornate seat and lowered herself into it, her back coming to rest on the old engraving of the Black family crest inlaid with gold. Once she was seated, the other members resumed their seats below her.

**

Harry and Ron had mostly been able to maintain their friendship like normal despite their imbalanced work relationship. At first, Harry had worked far too much, but with Ginny’s urging he’d begun watching quidditch again, letting himself be destroyed by Ron in wizarding chess, and occasionally joining Fred and Seamus Finnegan for a rowdy evening launching harmless, exploding reptiles at unsuspecting victims in Diagon Alley (under significant glamour charms course). Ron’s auror team always got stuck with cleaning up the latter, but it didn’t bother him too much. It made Harry feel more like his friend again, and that made him feel more like himself again.

Hermione had even started showing up again, dropping hints that she might move or may have already moved back to the area. Several attempts to learn more were met with grumpy threats. Recalling what she’d done to the aurors in front of Shacklebolt’s office last year, he thought better of pushing for more information. He wasn’t able to get much out of her about the whole Lestrange event either. 

“She just showed up at the placed I worked a few times, Ron. We chatted some. Then I helped her like I would’ve helped anyone in that situation.”

“Chatted? You just chatted up the most infamous Death Eater? On a whim?”

“Ron, the Death Eaters are gone. The Order is gone. All that’s left are people trying to live their lives.”

“I don’t think those are really a one-to-one comparison. I mean, objectively, the Death Eaters were bloody evil.”

Hermione sighed. “Objectively, nothing went well during that time. Objectively, no one wants to be a Death Eater anymore.”

“But then there’s Lestrange.”

“Objectively!” 

He decided not to push that one further either. There was something else there, but he wasn’t going to figure it out now. Hermione was already grumpy at him for not adequately caring that there was no news about the attack on the dark witch.

“When does Harry get off again?” Hermione rubbed her hands together to control a shiver.

“Better be soon because Ginny’s holding us the best seats at the pitch. Look! There he is!” Ron brightened considerably.

However, Hermione was already looking because although Harry stood on the top step of the landing in front of the ministry’s main centerpiece, next to him was Narcissa Malfoy, shoulders erect, before a growing crowd of Ministry workers – and now one, now two, reporters with quills and flashing cameras. She was in a light blue dress, wrapped in a silken black shawl, and clearly posed for the cameras. An outstretched hand on her cane, she turned her head toward Harry so that dangling silver earrings could flash in the light. When she spoke, her voice was just loud enough for everyone on the stairs to hear it. Hermione wondered if anyone picked up on its saccharine coating. 

“Please send the Minister my greetings and tell him to be on the lookout for an invitation to a ball at the Black Manor. And consider yourself invited, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s face was mildly ashen, but he maintained a composure Hermione was sure he could not have managed several years ago. “Of course, Lady Malfoy.”

Questions bubbled up from the crowd. 

“A ball? Like one of the old traditional balls?” 

“What for?”

“When?”

“Is it only for pureblood families, then?”

“At the Black Manor? Not Malfoy Manor?”

“Yes, my old home really is excellent for parties. My sister and I are delighted to host there. All invitations should be received within the week.” Her lips puckered into a smirk when her gaze fixed on Hermione. Then she heard the question she was waiting for.

“Your sister? Which one?” 

She tore her eyes from Hermione in triumph, raised her chin at the camera, and said, “Both of them.”

**

The quidditch match did not go well. They bought a round of firewhiskeys to soothe Harry and loosen up for the game. Barely 15 minutes in, however, an already tense Hermione ran hyperventilating from the stadium, disapparating at a dead sprint before her friends could catch up to her.

She landed in her living room and spent a few minutes trying to control her breathing. The lights had been bright at the pitch; there weren’t any fireworks; there was no billowing smoke; she heard no maniacal laughter. It didn’t matter, though. The memory of her father at his only quidditch match overshadowed her present experience. The memory was merciless: _that voice, rolling heads, the crowd screaming, her father’s terrified face, her mother worried in the door, her mother looking up at the little birds and giving her a hug, the coffee mug her father pressed into her hand, her wand pointed at the backs of their heads, the ways the walls shook with her magic._ With spellwork like that she was a great witch, wasn’t she? She had good intentions. She was a good witch. She was good, wasn’t she?

Unlabeled potions tumbled about as she groped through her shelves for something. Finding nothing satisfying, she whirled around and grabbed for a liquor bottle. Slurping from the top of it steadied her. She needed to talk to someone. _Andromeda._ Andromeda would hear her out. Andromeda knew about muggleborns and muggle life. Andromeda didn’t need her wax eloquent about “the greater good.” Andromeda would remind her of who she was or wasn’t.

Hermione gulped another swig from the bottle, and another. Then, instead of stepping into the floo and calling the Tonks residence, she seized the sparrow portkey to the Black Manor.

**

Bellatrix hadn’t been able to sleep so far that night, so she’d let herself take a stroll around the grounds to dispel some of her anxiety. Lately, when Azkaban crouched too closely at the edges of her sanity, she ruminated about the weekly games of wizard’s chess that had finally resumed with Hermione. She was surprised at the young woman’s unwillingness to confront the problem of their differences and the sins of their shared past most of the time – especially after their last disagreement at Hermione’s flat - and she got the feeling that she was doing her a service by allowing her to avoid it. They were cautious around each other, though probably for different reasons.

Bellatrix was returning to the Manor through the garden when Hermione appeared with the portkey she had sweettalked her middle sister into making for her. 

The woman was unsteady, cursing as she stumbled over her feet. She caught herself on the lattice, aggressively wiped away scattered, wavy locks from her face, and cried out. “Bella! Bella, where are you?”

Bellatrix sank back into the shadows under the ivy so that the other woman’s gaze would not find her.

“Bella! I know you’re here. I know you know I’m here. Come out! Come out and face me!”

The dark-haired woman could see Hermione’s tear streaked face and cracked lips from where she stood, and she had a pretty good idea that Hermione was drunk. The sparrows teetered in a sloppy circle above her.

“Bella, it was you! It was you at the stadium, wasn’t it? You lit the fire. The heads – who did they belong to? Were they muggles? Were they people you knew? Or just unlucky people you found at the wrong place, at the wrong time?” She drew her wand. “My father saw you, you know. He saw me and asked me who you were. I told him I didn’t know. I lied to him! To protect him from you! Would you have come to kill him too? I lied to him so many times.”

“Were you successful?” Bellatrix finally spoke but didn’t move into the moonlight. 

“In protecting him from you, yes.” Hermione spun around searching for her.

“What about from you?”

“I tried.” The air was still.

“I hear your magic is quite strong. That kind of spell would require it.”

Hermione barked a laugh. “Fuck my magic. Magic kills a person from the inside out.”

“You heard that from Andy.”

“I didn’t need to hear it. I see it, Bella. I saw it in your open body. I see it in your eyes.”

“That’s not magic, babe. That’s evil.” The woman stepped out from behind the ivy.

Hermione pointed her wand at the silhouette of curls. “That day at the stadium. Were you under the imperius curse?”

“Is that what you came here to find out?”

“Were you or were you not?”

“I wasn’t. Not that day.”

All of Hermione’s muscles clenched, but her wand didn’t move. “And the day at Malfoy Manor?”

“I was.”

“Then you resisted somehow. Why didn’t you the other times? Why did you let yourself do all those things?” 

“I didn’t _want_ to resist most of the time. We weren’t good people, Hermione. We didn’t go bad because the Dark Lord made us. We already were what we were.”

“Then why all the imperius curses?”

Bellatrix rolled her head back and forth; she looked tired. “Maybe for the sake of consistency? I hope by now you can see that bad people do good things as much as good people do bad things. There is no way to answer that question truthfully, and there’s no answer you want to hear.”

The young woman began to cry again; her outstretched arm shuddered. Bellatrix took cautious steps toward her until her cleavage was almost touching the woman’s wand, which was humming with magic.

“Hermione, even if you did something you think is wrong, you’re not unforgivable. You’re not damned.”

“Andromeda said no magic is inherently dark. She said the person makes it dark.”

“I bet she did. She would know better than anyone. You think I don’t use dark magic because I’ve turned good? I don’t use dark magic now because I don’t have magic to use anymore. You think Andy doesn’t use dark magic? She just uses it differently. Always has.”

Hermione was confused because the woman’s words were so awful, and yet her voice was gentle, her brow creased with legitimate concern, and her face so damn beautiful. 

“I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want it to feel like this anymore.”

“Then don’t. Just let it be. Just rest.”

“It’s not ok to ignore what’s been done. What I’ve done, much less what _you’ve_ done.”

“I’m not asking you to ignore it. I’m asking you to go easier on the people you care about, including yourself.” 

She put one hand on Hermione’s wand arm to lower it and pulled the young woman closer. She wrapped one arm around her torso, one arm around her upper back. Hermione dropped her forehead onto her shoulder, so Bellatrix placed her hand softly on the back of her head and held her while she sobbed. Eventually, Hermione’s arms, wand still in hand, clasped desperately around the ex-Death Eater’s back and clenched the fabric of her dress in both fists. Bellatrix let her chin press against the woman’s hair and breathed deeply for them both. The little birds came to a rest, perched on the women’s heads and shoulders. They all remained like that for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting lots of questions about Blackcest. It's probably not what you think it is, but you were warned in the tags. Perhaps I over-warned, but I feel like people like to know what they're getting into - although personally I do love a good blindside.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments, kind remarks, and thoughtful questions. I appreciate you indulging (and expanding) my process.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	16. Parading in the Mirror as More than Human

“Ladies, our invitations have all been sent. Most have already confirmed attendance, including the remainder of the Sacred 28, representatives of all the major new sources, and officials from every Ministry department.” Narcissa was arranging letters into neat piles on the table with Andromeda peering over her shoulder.

Bellatrix, however, was sprawled unceremoniously on a nearby armchair, her legs spread as much as her hair. “Did Potter accept?”

“Of course.” Narcissa looked at her disapprovingly. “Bella, it’s so nice that you’ve exchanged your old corset and skirts for hip, new muggle pants when you sit like that.”

“Shush, Cissy. I only did it to save face for the family. Gods know what Black incest rumors would get resurrected if it seemed like Draco fancied his aunt.” Bellatrix shot Andromeda a salacious smirk.

Both of her sisters rolled their eyes. Andromeda dismissed her quickly. “You’re insufferable. Speaking of Draco, is he up to this?” 

“He is quite the businessman. Takes after his mother. I’ve no doubts about his ability and desire to execute.”

“This is boring.” Bellatrix kicked her heels in the air. “Surely, you have some juicy Wizengamot secrets to spill by now, Andy.”

“Actually, I’m late for an appointment with a regular client at St. Mungo’s. Keep me posted, Cissy.”

After Andromeda was gone, Bellatrix spoke again. “Did Granger get invited?”

“I thought that was a given.” Narcissa replied without looking up. “But I’m glad to hear we’re on the same page. Don’t get distracted from your job, Bella.”

“I would never.”

**

To Hermione’s surprise, she arrived at the Black Manor at the same time as her best friends. Even though she had conceivably been closer with at least one Black sister than she had with her old friends in the last year, their presence made her feel more confident. Ron looked smart in a standard tux. Harry sported a tuxedo tailcoat, and Ginny had been fitted for a new dress in a stunning emerald color that Harry’s eyes matched deliciously. 

“You are a handsome lot.” Hermione grinned at them.

“And though you try to remain as nondescript as possible, you are as dashing as usual, though I think you’ll have to fend off more suitors than you even did at the Hogwarts Halloween ball.” Ginny remained one of the kindest people she knew. Ron blushed darkly.

The ball’s attendees were all giddy with anticipation. They filed in through the front of the Manor, where their coats floated of their own accord to hooks pre-labelled with their names. Opulence adorned every inch of the house with gold and silver. Glasses of champagne hovered in clusters waiting for greedy hands to seize them. Even the house elves were conspicuous: their ragged clothing had been replaced with purple and blue suits with bowties that glittered. Chandeliers rained down light that evaporated just above their heads, and ancient magic gleamed from the ornate engravings that accented the edges of every surface in the room. There were loud guffaws and slaps on the back between those who hadn’t seen each other in a long time mixed in with not-so-muffled whispers between young and old purebloods about other families. Shacklebolt himself made an appearance and did some strategic rounds through the other guests. Hermione was surprised at how quickly the interactions became calculated political and social networking, speculations about the Malfoys and the Blacks notwithstanding. It seemed that, despite the magnitude of the Black family presence – or perhaps because of it – they remained almost mythical. 

The guests ate and drank without any sign from the hosts. Dancing began, following music from an orchestra of instruments playing themselves. Ginny turned out to be right; Hermione politely refused half a dozen well-dressed men before consenting to one dance with one whom she thought had been a seventh-year student at Hogwarts when she was in her first year. When Harry and Ginny disappeared, she even allowed Ron to twirl her onto the floor, and she was relieved to feel at peace with her friend. Merriment replaced nervous energy throughout the crowd until the music faded away and a lone figure appeared at the top of the grand staircase on the far side of the room.

The crowd hushed to focus on Narcissa Malfoy clad in a tastefully fitted beige dress, her cane looking more like a scepter than a reminder of war. A large silver ring with an obsidian stone flashed from the hand resting on it. When she spoke, her voice filled the room without booming.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to welcome you to the Black Manor, long the home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. I hope you are finding the amenities suitable to your needs. If you wish for anything, please address the elves with utmost respect as they have been with our family for more generations than most of you can trace in your own lineages.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the woman’s paradoxical snobbery and unexpected support for house elves. Ron looked confused at her smile. Energy then began to roll from the woman out through the room, and Hermione knew something big was about to happen.

“You have been invited here today to be part of something very important. The Black family has lain dormant for far too long. Though our mothers, fathers, all our ancestors wielded power and sound judgment even amidst some of the darkest of times, we stumbled in the shadow of a great evil, not unlike many of you.”

A mixture of respect, regret, and mourning descended up on the crowd. They were playing their part in Narcissa’s drama very well.

“The wizarding world in Britain has entered a new era; it is much-needed, though it took many people and things from everyone that it should not have had to take in the process. Not unlike you, the House of Black has had to gather itself from its knees to return to its glory. So I am now proud to present you a new Black family empire for the new wizarding age.”

The crowd tittered. Hermione tightened her grasp on her drink. Narcissa looked positively like one of the legendary sorceresses of old, or perhaps like a drawing of the Fates she’d found tucked into the pages of a book in the restricted section in her third year at Hogwarts.

“I myself will be executing the operations of the Black family investments and trade agreements. My son, Mr. Draco Malfoy has agreed to take over the Malfoy estate. Any business done with Malfoy Apothecaries, its associated corporations, or the Malfoy alliances will be conducted with him.”

Draco appeared in an all-black suit from the dark recesses of the landing to stand beside her. They shared a look, and he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand before descending the stairs halfway and planting himself by the bannister. 

Narcissa continued. “Next, we welcome a fortuitous development. My late cousin, Sirius Black, included an addition to his will true to his classically progressive character.” Hermione’s and Ron’s jaws both dropped. “Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter will act as deputy administrators of Orion and Walburga Black’s share of the family fortune.”

Harry and Ginny emerged to stand by her side. The three of them inclined their heads to each other with a small bow, and the Potters joined Draco, mimicking his stance by the opposite bannister. They looked straight ahead, refusing to meet the eyes of anyone in the crowd.

“The next announcement is the dearest to our hearts, a reconciliation born of the worst of tragedies and the magic that always outlives them. Returning to claim the Black family seat in the Wizengamot and manage our family alliances is a witch long-esteemed in every wizarding faction, Mrs. Andromeda Black Tonks.”

There was an audible gasp from the crowd. Hermione gasped too, against her will. Andromeda strode forward in magenta and silver with both a pretentious pureblood air and an authority that shattered the auspices of power that had accompanied the ball’s guests. Her magic blasted forth, and Hermione couldn’t believe no one in the room was knocked over by it. Narcissa planted a tender kiss on the woman’s cheek before Andromeda descended to a place next to Draco who averted his eyes in deference. There was an empty space between Harry and the middle Black sister. Hermione felt her jaw quivering.

“Finally, it is my truest pleasure to re-introduce to you the heart, soul, and head of the Black family, my eldest sister, Mrs. Bellatrix Black Lestrange.”

Bellatrix sauntered from the recesses of darkness behind her sister. The light dawned on her from the ground up, revealing a tight, shimmering, black dress with a slit that extended from her tall heels to mid-thigh before illuminating her face, framed by loose ringlets overflowing the mass of hair swirled up on her head. She wore black gloves that reached past her elbows, leaving her bare upper arms separated from a plunging neckline by a thin cloth strap. Hermione couldn’t look away. No one could.

“Lady Malfoy, you are ever so kind.” Bellatrix placed her hand in the palm Narcissa offered, and the youngest Black sister escorted the head of the Black family dramatically down the stairs. Then she came to a stop two steps above the others, releasing the dark-haired woman who placed herself in the gap between Harry and Andromeda. As if on cue, they all – including the Potters – barely tilted haughty chins in the signature Black posture. Narcissa spread her arms above them. “Witches and wizards! Your new Black Family Empire.”

The clapping began slowly with only one or two people. Others joined in hesitantly until the room rang with applause and cheering. Bellatrix kept her head held high while she removed her gloves one finger at a time, smoothed them out, and draped them over the arm that Harry extended at her command. Then she stepped forward into the crowd. The music began again, and most found it prudent to resume to their festivities.

Hermione was overwhelmed. She hadn’t felt so much magic in one place since the battle at Hogwarts. Ron stewed beside her. Harry and Ginny were reluctantly making their way back to them, obviously trying to delay their return with side conversations. Worst of all, she could track Bellatrix’s every movement because of the way the guests knotted around her and the wake of wide eyes and wagging heads that trailed behind her. They were being reeled in and pushed out without their knowledge. Her laugh trilled (where was that maniacal cackle for which she was so famous?) to compliment the seductive lilt in her voice. Men of all ages flocked with their hands outstretched to dance, and dozens of women laughed too loudly at her comments or too readily brushed her arms or dress with their fingertips. Hermione could see the dark-haired woman’s glee; she winked, feigned surprise, pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows, lowered her eyelids, straightened collars, and touched lower backs in rapid succession. It was dizzying to observe the power she held over the people near her. They jostled for a position next to her and blushed whether she pulled them forward or pushed them back. She accepted a well-placed dance or two, her fingers delicate and intentional on the shoulders and necks of the men leading her. The swarming magic around her was thick and smoky. _How was she doing it?_

Hermione shook her head trying to free her mind. She wanted to be disgusted. It had taken mere minutes, a mere dress, a handful of sultry glances, to make them all forget the woman’s past. The murders, the tortures, the pureblood supremacy all disappeared with a tiny nudge. But there she was too, unable to take her eyes off the woman, hands awkwardly clutching her empty glass because they suddenly felt foreign to her, some desire circulating between her ribs and abdomen. _Gods_.

Harry’s and Ginny’s presence rescued her for the time being. Harry’s hands were in his pockets while he back and forth on his heels. Ginny looked much more comfortable than he did.

“Um, well… surprise!” 

“What the hell are you thinking, mate?” Ron was irate.

Ginny rolled her eyes at her brother. “Come off it, Ron. It’s not like we didn’t want to tell you. We just had to wait for Narcissa.”

“Wait for Narcissa? Listen to yourself!” Ron was flabbergasted.

Harry looked apologetic but shrugged his shoulders. “It just makes sense. The offer was irrefusable. Turns out there’s an old agreement between the Blacks and the Potters that guarantees us 20% of the revenue of the Black family investment of our choice as long as we back the head of the Black family politically and financially. _20%!_ And Malfoy Apothecaries has locked down the entire healthcare market right now.”

“Are you bloody mental?” 

It was Ginny that called him out with an almost motherly smile. “Ron, don’t act all high and mighty. It’s not like you turned down the invitation to come ogle the Blacks’ wealth and power.”

He looked incredulous. “Being fascinated by a legendary, wicked family is totally different from supporting their monopoly of our world!”

“Is it though? Look at you, groveling for their attention along with everyone else here.”

“They’ve lost it, haven’t they, Hermione?” He looked to her for help.

She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I think Harry knows what he’s doing.”

Harry cracked a grin. “That’s a relieving thing to hear, especially considering what you said the last time we were in a room with a Black sister. But I think you’re on their radar as well.”

Hermione followed his gaze. Draco was casually strolling toward her and slipped his hands in his pockets when he neared. “Granger.” He inclined his head.

“Malfoy.”

“At a later date, I’d be curious to learn more about your… production. In more discrete company of course.”

She matched his stance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please. I know my company’s most important customers like the back of my hand.”

“I’ve never shopped at Malfoy Apothecaries.”

“Ah, but you have. And you make very interesting purchases. Given other markets, I find your work highly promising. Truly, it would be an honor.”

Her face remained impassive, but he wasn’t concerned. He smiled after a moment. “I’ll send an owl. Potter. Weasley.” He nodded curtly and left them.

“I don’t know what he’s – “ She tried to cover for herself.

“We know, Hermione. It’s fine. But that’s not who I was talking about.” He tugged his wife and his friend away as a black-clad body and barely parted red lips passed impossibly close, leaning across her to reach for something on the refreshments table.

“Hermione.” The figure breathed. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d actually come.”

The woman’s front was pressed against Hermione’s side and a loose curl tickled her cheek. Hermione’s breath caught as she struggled to maintain her composure; the woman didn’t back away.

“You’re making quite the impression.” Hermione willed her voice not to waver.

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

The lips stopped inches from her own, the woman’s breath warm on her cheek. Hermione swallowed and forced herself to speak again. “The magic is practically billowing from you. Is this how you build the new empire? Love enchantments? Lust charms? Seducing the masses with sex?”

“Is it working?”

“Apparently. Look at them.”

“No, I meant on you.” The lips smirked, and Hermione couldn’t help exhaling sharply when the woman’s hips rolled away from her. Bellatrix let out a low chuckle. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” was all Hermione could muster. Her hands now gripped the edge of the table behind her.

“Don’t be so tense. Balls are supposed to be fun. Calculated, conniving, and fun.” Bellatrix drained her champagne flute.

Just then, a greying man probably a decade older than Bellatrix approached the two women with a silky smile. “Bellatrix.” His voice was condescending. “You look stunning for a woman your age.”

“And you look terrible for a man of yours, Arcturus. Truly, the Dark Lord was so generous when he eliminated 14 years of Azkaban’s damage to my body. Don’t worry, he made sure to crucio the lights out of me afterwards.” Her voice dripped with disdain.

Arcturus didn’t take the hint. “That’s what all this is about though, isn’t it? Good coming from the bad.” His hand curved around the dark-haired woman’s side to slide across her back. Hermione’s gut recoiled.

In a flash, Bellatrix seized the hand and twisted it with a ripping sound. Arcturus screeched; his hand hung limply with the bones at the base of his palm thrust forward unnaturally. “You bitch!”

With one hand, she jerked him forward by his collar. “No, you’re the bitch. You’re my bitch, actually. Did you forget your family’s subjection agreement with me? How many generations is that? 8 more after you? Don’t ever touch me again.” She shoved him backwards into a small crowd that had gathered to watch with mouths agape. “Go see Andromeda. I’m sure she can fix your wrist in a hot minute, but I hope she drags it out. She’s been known to do that. Should I summon an elf, or can you get across the room on your own?”

The man looked at her, horrified, and stumbled away through the crowd. Bellatrix acknowledged none of the stares as she turned sweetly back to Hermione. “Where were we?”

“Do your sisters know what you’re doing?”

Bellatrix laughed. “They’re just happy they don’t have to be around while I’m doing it. Also, you know I can’t do magic, but I’m flattered that you mistake my natural charm for a spell to, what did you say, ‘seduce the masses with sex’.” 

The woman gave Hermione a devious smile, eyes sliding down to her waist and back up to her face. “Don’t be a stranger.” Then she sauntered away.

Hermione gulped and tried to control her dizzy head before finding her friends.

“Damn. What was that all about?” Ginny probed.

“Nothing. She’s bloody mental.”

“Finally! It’s about time!” Ron exclaimed.

A house elf appeared with a flute of champagne in hand and addressed Hermione. “Mrs. Lestrange sends this to Ms. Granger.”

Hermione reluctantly took the drink from his hands. A high pitched “thank you” left her lips when she found Bellatrix Lestrange with a lifted chin and narrowed eyes smirking at her from across the room.

**

The ball ended after midnight. At 6 am, the Daily Prophet featured no fewer than half a dozen articles about the event. “HARRY POTTER’S COLLUSION WITH BLACK FAMILY,” “EX-DEATH EATER EMPIRE,” and “PRODIGAL DAUGHTER FILLS BLACK WIZENGAMOT SEAT” were the more notable titles. The main attraction, however, was “TOUJOURS PUR ONCE MORE” under a large photograph of the three women. They had clearly arranged themselves on the mezzanine to attract the attention of Lee Jordan’s keen camera at the ball. Their ploys had been successful; people on the streets were practically drooling over the front-page photo. Andromeda stood in the middle fully facing the camera, jaw squarely set with her auburn hair undulating around her; her eyes were unblinking and threatening. Her arms were settled at her side, wrists facing forwards, the wand in her right hand still emitting sparkling smoke upward into the charm she had just cast: “ _Toujours Pur_ ” floated above their heads in arcing calligraphy that unsettled Hermione with how much it looked like that from her Hogwarts invitation. Narcissa’s cane was almost touching Andromeda’s wand, while the blonde woman’s stony gaze bored holes into the camera. Her body faced her sister, left hand wrapped possessively around the woman’s upper arm. Bellatrix also faced the middle sister on the other side, but she was pressed in so closely that her breasts hugged either side of the woman’s left arm. She had her hands folded lazily on Andromeda’s shoulder. Her head was facing her sister entirely, eyes narrowed toward the camera as if to include the viewers in a secret she was whispering in her sister’s ear. Her lips were frozen mid-sentence. Unlike most wizarding photos, there was no movement save the smoke spiraling from Andromeda’s wand into the shimmering family motto.

Hermione meant to throw the paper away a dozen times. Each time she picked it up, though, Andromeda’s stunning gaze penetrated her. She wanted to look at her - and be looked at by her - forever, she thought, though she had the impression that she might be burned up by the woman’s eyes if she tried. It was a more earthy thing to consider Bellatrix. The dark-haired witch made her body feel real, a thing that had never crossed her mind before. Andromeda was transcendent; Bellatrix was immanent. She always put the paper back on the table instead of in the trash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's my sick day post.
> 
> the next chapter (chapter 17) will be what you all came for and the chapter after (chapter 18) will be what you didn't know you came for. looking forward to it.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	17. That Particular Experience of Creatureliness

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Bellatrix perched on Hermione’s kitchen counter, watching her pack. She’d donned her muggle uniform again – black skinny jeans and boots, black hoody with impossible curls spilling out from under the hood up over her head.

“Wouldn’t you after that stunt at the ball? Sorry – _all_ those stunts at the ball.” Hermione was mostly only peeved because she’d had to scramble so quickly to hide the copy of the Daily Prophet with the picture of the three sisters under her bed when her alarm wards announced Bellatrix’ visit.

The woman frowned. “Probably. Only because I know what trouble I usually cause.”

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“I didn’t say you didn’t. It’s just that every now and then you act like you want to spend time with me.”

“And then I am immediately reminded of all the problems with that. Look, I believe you and Andromeda about all the old magic and the darkness and all that shit. I believe you, but that doesn’t change how much of a fucking advantage you have. It doesn’t change that you can just rebuild a massive political and economic powerhouse with next to no effort and that people will be so obsessed with it – even after you did such terrible things to them. And that affects me and everyone I love!”

“Yeah, that’s shit, you’re right.”

“Don’t play that card. You can’t get out of this just by agreeing with me.”

“I can’t get out of it anyway, Hermione.”

“Stop being so deterministic. You could have. Like the Weasleys – the Weasleys aren’t like you.”

“The Weasleys! The Weasleys are the worst of all. Do you know why the Weasleys are the way they are?” Bellatrix was clearly going to continue anyway, so Hermione didn’t answer her. “All Sacred 28 families – including the Weasleys, mind you – realized around the same time that muggleborns were going to change our world. Our reactions ranged widely, from the House of Black on one end to the Weasleys on the other.”

So far this was going exactly how Hermione expected it to, but since the dark-haired woman had yet to do much of anything that she expected, she began to get nervous about what she was hearing.

“The Weasleys felt guilty that the incoming muggleborn witches and wizards had virtually zero chance of achieving anything in our world. Don’t look at me like that proves your point – we all felt guilty. But the Weasleys tried to assuage their guilt by erroneously pretending they could share their power with muggleborns, like they could give up their unmerited advantages or something. They were trying to convince all the pureblood families to do it, but of course we refused because we knew it was an impossible endeavor. And we never wanted to give up power and wealth to each other, much less to the new muggleborns. Do you know what happened?” 

Hermione obliged the woman and shook her head.

“The Weasleys signed over their Wizengamot seat to a muggleborn by the name of Sparks. Within the week, Sparks was in a subjection agreement to the Bones’ and the seat was removed from the Wizengamot altogether. The Weasleys began pledging funds to support muggleborns starting businesses, going to school, paying debts that they just kept incurring to pureblood families… They felt too guilty to stop; they wasted their entire fortune on it. They literally have nothing now except their property. And you know what? They feel good about it. Like they’re on your side; like they suffer with you muggleborns. But, Hermione, do you feel like they experience what you experience?”

Hermione shook her head again. She remembered how condescending the Weasleys always were to her when she shared a discovery or an idea she had about the wizarding world.

“They pretend like they’re like you. But they’re not. Even though they’re dirt poor, they still get all the rights and privileges that the rest of us purebloods have. They refuse to acknowledge that.”

That was absolutely true. She could still feel herself slouching into the chair in front of the fireplace in Grimmauld Place the first time she had realized that nothing would change as long as even the Order couldn’t – or wouldn’t – see how systemic pureblood supremacy was.

“Because they choose not to believe in their privilege, they can’t admit the thing it’s hiding. They can’t admit their darkness. They’ll be trapped by it forever, and they’ll keep you trapped if you let them.”

 _Fuck._ That made more sense to Hermione than she wanted it to, but this was something she was going to be extra stubborn about. “The Weasleys are my friends, Bella. You can’t make me give them up.”

The woman laughed. “Why do you take everything as a challenge? I don’t think you should give them up. I’m just not sure your friendship with them is any less problematic than your friendship with me.”

A few years ago, Hermione would have scorned such a statement, but as she continued stuffing things into her bag (without magic, because it felt more satisfying) she knew she already agreed with the woman. “You’re just a lot harder to explain.”

“Well, that is obviously true, and I don’t envy you for that. But maybe you don’t need to explain.”

Hermione rubbed her face and said nothing, choosing instead to work in silence long enough to make the dark-haired witch antsy.

“Where are you going?” The woman spoke again.

“On a trip, I told you. For work.”

“Full time alchemist now that you've moved back to London, I hear.”

“I’m not working with Draco.”

“I know.”

“I’m not going to.”

“I know.”

“Bella, what’s going on? Why are you here?”

“I just wanted to see you before you left. You said I could come in. You didn’t have to. I’ll leave if you want.”

She made to leave, but Hermione pushed her gently back down onto the counter. “Stay.” Bellatrix looked at her with expectation, but Hermione just grabbed a water bottle and turned back to stuff it in her bag. 

“How long will you be gone?”

“A few months.”

“You’re so evasive.”

“You’re so persistent. What is it that you want me to bring back?”

“Nothing. Why is it so hard for you to imagine that I’m not trying to get something out of you?”

“Then why are you here?”

“I like…your company.” The woman on the counter slouched.

“You’re not beholden to me, Bella.” Hermione stopped shuffling items so she could lean against the counter with her arms crossed, looking much like her own mother. “You don’t owe your life to me or anyone else. Just consider yourself free to live your life - and maybe you can even start helping others if you can find it within you.”

“Hermione, I said I like your company.”

“The Black family empire doesn’t seem to do ‘company.’”

Bellatrix sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m being honest. I’m here because I’d rather you not leave for a few months. I’m here because I’ll miss beating you at wizard’s chess, and I’ll miss the firewhiskey that you owe me when you lose.”

Hermione squinted insolent eyes, but the other woman’s sincerity was not lost on her. “You know when you slouch like that, you could pass for a teenager.” The woman rolled her eyes petulantly. “All the more when you do that.”

Hermione turned away again. Bellatrix certainly did not look like a teenager, and she didn’t want to be seen biting her lip when she accidentally looked at the woman’s mouth. They hadn’t spoken about the ball, but they met for wizard’s chess the week after it. It had nearly driven her crazy, though, to watch Bellatrix think, to see her eyes traverse the board and her fingertips dally on the table, the rim of a glass, or in the curl of hair she refused to pull back into her messy bun. The silence, the banter, the meaningless chitchat – it was all maddening. She made Hermione _want_ without doing anything, _need_ without meaning to, _hope_ without any appropriate reason, and there was no one alive who should make her feel less that way. That’s why Hermione cancelled on her the last two weeks and was now taking the work trip. She had to get away. She would visit the big European cities, do tourist things, meet strangers in clubs – that sort of thing. If she picked up some rare substances for potion alterations and rituals along the way, so be it. She’d spent too many years wound tight, and she just needed it to cease, if only for a bit. _Goddamn, if it wasn’t a dark lord then it was the Ministry, and if it wasn’t the Ministry then it was Bellatrix Lestrange._

“Don’t you dare leave me for good, Hermione Granger.” The dark-haired woman interrupted her thoughts again.

An unwelcome lump caught in Hermione’s throat, so she had to diffuse the tension. “Is that what the Dark Lord said to you?”

Bellatrix thought that was very funny, and the young woman was relieved. Poignant Bellatrix was harder to deal with than was seductive Bellatrix. “Don’t worry. I’ve never left anyone for good, bad, or anything in between.”

They shared a genuine smile, the kind that comes with warmth in the bones. Against her better judgment, Hermione let her magic roll out music and pulled the woman off the counter into an embrace. Their bodies pressed together, and the head of curls settled so that Bellatrix’s forehead nestled into the young witch’s neck. Hermione let her heart beat wildly for a mere moment before forcing herself to twirl the other woman away from her. They danced awkwardly at first and then with exaggerated gusto, bounding around the room and over furniture, until they collapsed against the kitchen counters again gasping for breath and laughing hysterically.

Once Bellatrix had gone, Hermione wondered at the absurdity of it all: dancing with the most infamous Death Eater in her own living room, laughing like schoolgirls or like – she couldn’t bring herself to say it to herself even though it was quite clear what she meant. 

**

Hermione was true to her word. In Paris, she visited the Eiffel Tower and a magical apothecary buried in a muggle drug store. After completing her work in Berlin, she tarried several days in the bed of a muggle German woman about her age who’d found her drunken ramblings about legendary magical creatures rather amusing. She went on a tour of old churches in Spain, kneeling on a whim in one of them to receive a blessing from an ancient priest who reminded her of Dumbledore. By the time she arrived in Kiev, though, she sought out an owlery and sent a hasty letter. 

“Quickly! Before I change my mind.” She shooed the owl out the window.

**

Bellatrix was lounging on the couch next to a bottle of wine she’d long since stopped drinking, hearing but not listening to her youngest sister drone on about trade wars with a corporation in Albania. A bird appeared on the horizon, hidden at first by the purpling shadows of sunset.

“Bella, are you even listening? Bella!” Narcissa’s exasperated voice rang louder.

“Sorry, Cissy.” Bellatrix sprang toward the window from her seat and opened it for an unfamiliar owl to swoop in and land in the middle of Narcissa’s nearly arranged papers. Bellatrix hastily unrolled the letter from its leg. A grin unfurled across her face when she read the few words. 

_Bella,  
Wizard’s chess – best 2 out of 3? Next week? Same place and time? _

Seizing a quill, she scratched out “2 out of 3” and scribbled “3 out of 5” over it in elegant, swirling handwriting. Then she called an elf to feed the owl before it returned the letter to its sender.

**

They requested the table in the far back of the shop – the one so small the chess board hung off the edges. It was technically a booth, as the chairs were built into the wall, but they were hardly wide enough to accommodate a single person on either side. It was partially obscured from the rest of the room by a giant hanging fern on one side and an awkwardly extended bookshelf on the other, and it faced the back of the building so that it could only be seen when exiting the bathrooms or the back end of the bar.  
The waitress typically only sat single customers at that table due to its size and atmosphere, especially ones who were there to linger and brood alone. These two women, whom she’d served several times, always asked for it. They had quite the reputation among the staff. Invariably, they ordered the same thing: a cappuccino for the chestnut-haired woman with the distant eyes and “a double shot – no, triple today – actually, why don’t you just drop off the whole bottle?” of whiskey for the one with the impressively dark, curly hair; maybe some chips for both of them. The wait staff had nominated her to be their regular waitress since they paid her little mind and tipped her well. This was after several instances where the dark-haired one had viciously berated other waitstaff with wild hands, a snarled lip, and nasty words. Each time, the other woman had laid a firm hand on her forearm, handed the waitstaff a surprising amount of cash, and asked them to just send the bill over with someone else. She thought herself savvy enough to refrain from extraneous comments, limit her time near the booth, select a top shelf liquor while only charging for the house whiskey, and bring them an extra cappuccino after an hour or so. When she saw one of their chess pieces brandish its weapon and shatter the pawn in its path without either of them touching it, she turned away abruptly so that they wouldn’t notice her presence. The first time the dark-haired woman had given her a smile, the charcoal eyes seeking hers out very intentionally, she had backed away quickly unsettled by the strange but not unwelcome buzzing under her sternum. 

The women had to fold themselves into the table in a way that should have looked awkward but somehow didn’t. It made her feel like she was intruding on something, and she looked away every time after the first. They would slide into each booth the same time but with their legs alternating one at a time so that they didn’t have to jostle them under the table to try to find a comfortable position. They began interlocked and remained so throughout their visit.

She surmised it was an affair, that the calm woman with the faraway eyes, usually in nondescript attire, had a husband who probably knew what was happening but never asked her about it. The scary dark-haired woman looked like she had once belonged to someone in a deep, soul-rending way that had marked her indelibly but had since passed, leaving mixed feelings in its wake. She normally scorned infidelity, but they looked so whole together that she decided to put her disdain aside along with her curiosity about the chess pieces. All sorts of people came to this unique shop to be left alone, and she felt it her duty to oblige them if they tipped well.

Once, the dark-haired woman pulled up her sleeves, revealing a gaudy tattoo on her right forearm. The other folded her hands and removed her attention from the chessboard to study the large skull with a sinister snake protruding where a tongue would’ve been. 

The dark-haired woman became very still, aware of the other’s intense focus on the ink. “You didn’t know it was still there, did you?”

“I tried not to think about it,” came the reply. “I thought maybe it went away when he did.”

“Well. It’s all still there.”

“When did you get it?”

“Too long ago.” The woman pursed her lips. “I deserved it.”

“Why would you say that?”

“It was technically a gift. A badge, if you will. Given to me the day I nearly killed my father and burned Andy off the family tree.”

That was a shocking statement, but it wasn’t totally out of line with the woman’s persona. The waitress knew she should walk away. Instead she continued to wipe down dishes quietly.

“Did you want it then?” The lighter-haired woman looked sad.

“I wanted to protect my sister. And it made me feel so alive.”

“Hard to go back from, huh?”

“Impossible.” There was silence, and then. “Do you hold it against me?”

“No. Which is hard to explain to myself, but I don’t feel like I need to.” 

“Do you want to?”

“Be able to explain it? No. Hold it against you? I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

The two women traded a few moves in silence before the melancholy one raised her eyes to the other. “The year after the trials. In the Ministry rehab program. What was it like?”

The dark-haired woman shrugged. “Unremarkable, really. Day in, day out, the same routine. Wake up in a simple room with grey walls. Eat unimpressive breakfast. Minor calisthenics. Morning tinctures with tea. Listen to someone drone on about something. Sit for some sort of testing. A few times it was unpleasant, but not most of the time. Tinctures with afternoon tea. Forced reading time while memories were extracted from us. Individual therapy. Dinner. Evening tincture. Vague socializing. Go to sleep in the grey room. Start again the next day.”

The woman listening furrowed her brow. “But what about your magic? Wasn’t that part of it?”

 _Magic?_ The waitress wondered; if she had believed in magic, that would have made the women make much more sense. As it was, she didn’t.

“We used it and felt it less and less. One day I woke up, and it was just gone.”

“Did that feel …bad?” The woman blinked rapidly, obviously trying to make sense of something she didn’t expect to hear.

“No. Just like it was happening to someone else and not to me.” The woman ran a hand through her heavy curls. “I didn’t really think much of it, honestly, until Andy picked me up when I was released. That was a shock. Her magic was utterly overwhelming.”

“Is that why you left her house so soon?”

“Partly.” The woman clearly wasn’t going to continue answering that question.

“That doesn’t make sense. Surely something horrible happened or they wouldn’t have tried to kill you afterwards.”

Attractive, trilling _laughter_ bubbled up from the dark-haired woman and frustrated her counterpart. “Hermione, you should stop letting that weigh on you. People have been trying to kill me since I was a teenager. If I let it bother me, I’d be clinically insane by now.”

“I put my fingers literally in your body to pull out some ungodly magic, and your blood soaked my living room, and you want me to just let it go? That was super traumatizing, Bella.”

The waitress thought she was getting more than she bargained for by eavesdropping on the conversation.

“You’ve been letting a lot of things go, lately. What’s one more?”

The woman who was protesting drooped her head. “I don’t understand how you’re so unphased.”

“Things only matter as much as you let them.”

“That’s the pureblood in you talking. Some things do matter regardless of what we think of them, and this is one of those things.”

“Perhaps it does come with the territory to be able to ignore injustice so easily. But I bet if you try it out, things will go a lot easier for you. Stop resisting.”

“But don’t you hate the Ministry?”

“When I was younger, I had more energy to hate it. Then I realized it was made up of people just like me. Now I know it’s just a game.”

“A very costly game.”

“Sure.”

There was a long pause while they continued to play. Then the woman ceased her protesting, and the distant eyes warmed while one of her pieces moved toward the other woman’s queen. “Checkmate, babe.”

The tension broke. They laughed and carried on flirting. The waitress thought the dark-haired woman now looked very much more herself, tattooed arm swinging the liquor bottle around on the table, charcoal eyes with some new ember of delight dancing at the woman who had just beaten her. When she finally chose to stack up the clean glasses and exit the bar near them, the other woman locked eyes with her, and she knew her eavesdropping was exposed. Fear flitted in her stomach, but the woman only shook her head almost imperceptibly. The two were gone when she returned, her normal tip stacked neatly on the table.

**

Outside the shop, Bellatrix and Hermione strolled down the sidewalk toward Diagon Alley with their hands in their pockets.

“She heard us, didn’t she?” Bellatrix questioned.

“Yep.”

“You should go back and obliviate her.”

“No!” Hermione replied brusquely. “She won’t say anything. She’s trustworthy."

“How do you know that?”

“Just people sense, Bella. Not everyone has to be forced into doing the right thing. She’s all right.”

Bellatrix snorted. “You have remarkable patience for muggles.”

“Well you have no patience for anyone, so all patience is remarkable to you.”

“I’ve been patient with you.” The woman’s voice was soft; so was the expression on her face. “But I must be going. Cissy will be livid if I miss the meeting with the Greengrasses this afternoon. Also, she’s peeved that you keep brushing off Draco’s offers.”

“Can’t be tied down. Especially not to the Blacks.” Hermione joked.

“Bummer for us,” was the reply. “Thanks for meeting up, Hermione. See you again soon, I hope.” She turned away before Hermione could respond. 

Hermione clenched her fists and furrowed her brow. She felt like something special was getting away, like she was losing something she desperately wanted. Unsure of what to do or say, she called out to the woman’s retreating form. “Wait, Bella.” She jogged forward. “Wait… are you doing anything tonight?”

“Not after I seduce or strongarm the Greengrasses, no.”

“Would you want to come over for dinner?” The words rushed out of Hermione’s mouth.

Bellatrix’ smile was dashing. “I can be there at 8.”

“8. Ok. All right.” On her way home, she pressed her fingers to her forehead. _What am I doing?_

**

Bellatrix knocked on the door at 8:10 with a bottle of wine that was quite expensive by the looks of it. Hermione stood in the doorway, blocking it with her body, visibly nervous.  
“Your wards are down. I just walked right through them.”

“A little reckless, don’t you think? They could’ve blown you to pieces if they were up.”

“You forget that that’s literally happened to me before, and I was fine. Are you going to let me in or are we eating out here?”

Hermione stepped aside, cheeks aflame. Bellatrix hung a new leather jacket in the entry way and popped the cork of the wine at the counter.

“Do you ever reflect on how much you drink?”

“Criticism so early in the evening.” Bellatrix shoved a glass into her hand. “Says the bartender. Why do you keep going back to that place, by the way?”

“I own it. The previous owner borrowed a lot of money from me to keep it afloat and then just decided it was easier to offload it to me than to pay me back.”

“Fine investment you’ve got there. Dingy bar in a fish town.”

“Didn’t see you complaining about it when you were there every Tuesday night.”

“There were perks.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. They sat awkwardly across from each other to eat. Though not big by any standard, she felt like the table placed great distance between them, especially compared to the tiny booth where they played wizard’s chess that afternoon. She sipped her wine only enough to calm her nerves and to be able to compliment it. For some reason, it made her even more anxious that Bellatrix barely touched her own drink.

“How did it go with the Greengrasses?”

“Hold up. Hermione Granger asking about Black family business? Did Draco break through to you in the few short hours that have passed since this afternoon? Or was it Harry?”

It was odd, but pleasing, to hear the woman refer to her friend by his first name. “I’m just interested. Just like everyone else. I can’t go anywhere in Diagon Alley or any other wizarding community without hearing something about you lot.”

Bellatrix waved her hand dismissively. “Cissy seems intent on some sort of dynasty, and Andy of course takes everything so damn seriously.”

“And you?”

The woman smirked while chewing. She took a sip of wine and said, “It’s just amusing to exert so much power over people like the Greengrasses.”

“Are you really seducing them?”

“Want a play-by-play?” This made Hermione grimace, but Bellatrix mercifully continued in a different direction. “Relax, Hermione. I’m not shagging anyone for money or trade deals or even politics. No, we made a legitimate agreement with the Greengrasses that they felt was a fair compromise but leaves us ample room to take proper advantage of their resources at a later date.”

“Proper advantage.” Hermione scoffed.

Bellatrix had her elbow on her table and pointed her fork over Hermione’s shoulder at the window. “Look, fireworks.”

They left their meal at the table. “Must be a holiday. Or a big football game,” said Hermione as she opened the glass door. It was warm so they stepped out onto the window-sized ledge with a railing that the apartment had advertised as a balcony. The two of them standing side by side filled the space.

“I never expected to spend so much time in the muggle world,” said Bellatrix, resting both arms on the railing. 

“How do you feel about it?”

“Lucky, I think.”

Hermione chuckled. “Has anyone ever figured you out?”

“Not many have tried. Or I pretended they didn’t. Maybe Andy.”

Bellatrix straightened and turned toward Hermione who realized too late that she was already facing the woman. Moonlight filled charcoal eyes to the brim and illuminated the intricate curls cascading around her face, neck, and shoulders. The shadows on her strong jaw and pronounced collarbones flickered as green, blue, orange, purple, red flashed from the explosions in the sky. When Hermione stole a glance at the woman’s mouth, she knew the inevitable had come. The lips, full and bright, parted slightly with careful inhaling and exhaling.

“Are you going to do it?” Bellatrix’ voice was husky. 

Hermione trembled as they moved closer to each other. Then her mouth was pressed against the dark-haired witch’s in a slow, searching kiss. Their lips slid against each other, tugging softly with hints of tongue and teeth here and there. Hermione placed a hand on the woman’s chest and pulled her in deeper with a fist clenched in her shirt before pushing her away again. Neither of them moved. Their chests heaved while fireworks and merry cheers continued in the distance.

“I have been waiting a long time for that.”

Hearing that statement in that husky voice made Hermione let out a short, breathy laugh. “Then why didn’t you do something about it?”

“I knew you didn’t want me to.”

“You think you know everything. You don’t know what I want and don’t want.”

Bellatrix was suddenly in her ear, one hand gently trapping her head and neck against those full lips tickling her skin. “Then please enlighten me about what you want, Hermione.”

It was too much to resist. She seized the woman’s waist and pulled her back inside the building. They stumbled past the table with the full wine glasses, kissing at full tilt. Bellatrix kept advancing, pushing her backwards while Hermione unzipped that damn black hoody and tugged it off the woman’s shoulders and arms. They stopped only when Hermione’s back collided with the closed bedroom door. She was out of breath and overwhelmed by the dark hair surrounding her as well as the lips and tongue dancing up her neck. Bellatrix’ hands were planted firmly on the doorframe on either side of her, holding her in place.

Hermione shuddered under the woman’s body pressing against her. “So help me if I find out this is just a ploy to get me to work for the Black family empire.”

“So help me when Cissy finds out it’s not.” That husky voice purred in her ear.

Hermione fumbled with the door handle behind her back, barely catching herself when it crashed open away from her. She grasped the woman by a handful of curls and fell backwards onto her bed underneath the dark witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter as a Tuesday gift. Y'all are a pleasure to imagine with.
> 
> Bellamione as promised. The next chapter is the best ride though, in my opinion.
> 
> Things I have trouble with: dangling prepositions, pronouns in all female stories, excessive adverbs, existential dread, and many more things. Thanks for bearing with me.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	18. Fumbling with both Fear and Fantasy

Bellatrix had no idea how relieved she would feel once Hermione kissed her. The first several times she lay in bed with her head buried in the young witch’s neck, pretending to be asleep, she flipped through memories like a picture book:

_The surprise and fear she felt the day she found herself being served by the young war hero in a musty muggle bar. The shock of a warming spell spreading over her shivering body from the woman’s wand. Strolling through muggle shops looking for new clothing. Andy and Narcissa on Andy’s 18th birthday, right before it all fell apart. The first time Hermione called her “Bella” instead of her full name. The gun pointed at her out of the fog. Andy telling the story about how Hermione burst into the Ministry to berate Harry and Kingsley. The way she looked in her dress at the ball. The fear on the young woman’s face at Malfoy Manor so many years ago. Andy’s daughter outside the Weasley home and then dead on the floor of Hogwarts. A very young Andy fleeing the room throwing spells at their father. The fleeting moment she’d seen Andy in Knockturn Alley right after the Dark Lord had rescued her from Azkaban. Azkaban. Despair she could hold with her hands. Dementors, too many to count. Cissy’s glazed eyes torturing Alice and Frank. Some sort of ugly hope she felt in the presence of the Dark Lord. Raw, old magic that used to course through her veins when she dueled and destroyed. The relief on Harry Potter’s face when she commanded him as the Black Family Head to stop investigating the attack on her. Wizard’s chess with Hermione. The Dark Lord’s game. Her family’s new empire play. This young woman’s warm, intentional fingers – the most intentional she’d ever experienced._

Did it all lead to this moment, laying in Hermione’s bed after hours of making love? Or was this the thing from which it all emanated? Or was she just indulging her own pureblood proclivity for epic and tragedy? It didn’t really matter. She gave herself permission to let it be important - all of it.

**

Andromeda was at the Black Manor that morning to discuss with her older sister an impending proposal from the muggle prime minister about expanding automotive infrastructure into land traditionally set aside for magical creatures and ritual shelters, a proposal that had a shocking amount of support from the Sacred 28, given that the land also included the Forbidden Forest and the Black Lake, which implied the entirety of the Hogwarts grounds given the lake’s watershed. The tip-off from her mole in parliament reached her just before Minerva arrived on her doorstep to ask for her help. She had already formed a counter-proposal to present to the Wizengamot when it was announced, but she needed her sister to give her blessing, mobilize the Blacks’ standing agreements with the magical creatures in the area, and give Narcissa the go ahead to pull economic strings that would surely cause the old pureblood family seats to comply with Andromeda’s motion.

Bellatrix was late, however. This was not altogether unusual, but once Andromeda had finished two cups of coffee – a habit she’d picked up from Ted – and entirely reorganized the blood ritual section of their library (where she incidentally found nothing about virgin birthing), she ran out of patience. Not seeking out Narcissa to ask where their sister was, which in hindsight was a big mistake, she stalked up to the second floor to Bellatrix’ room.

“Bella!” She banged on the door. “Bella, we have a meeting that you are obnoxiously late for, and I have better things to do than wait for you.” There was no sound from the room. “I know you’re in there. Get up. This is important.” Her hand glowed golden as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. “The fuck - ?”

Her sister was propped up with one hand, running the other through her untamed hair. Hermione Granger lay next to her, conspicuously bare shoulders peeking out from under the covers, rubbing her eyes. 

“Andy, you don’t need to be so loud.”

“I can’t believe you.” She stormed off.

**

“ _Fucking_ shit!” 

In the conference room, Andromeda was fuming. She was furious with her sister and furious with herself for how strongly she was reacting. She had known this was going on, hadn’t she? Hell, she had practically set them up. Their relationship even made sense, given all that had happened. There was absolutely no reason to be upset, much less hurt. This was her big sister’s prerogative and her modus operandi; she shouldn’t even be surprised. All she wanted was to be able to ignore it, but, true to form, she could not. Old memories she’d forced out of her head for years emerged with vengeance. 

_She was in her third year at Hogwarts. Cissy had been sorted into Slytherin barely three months ago. The Tri-Wizard tournament had been cancelled due to lack of interest from other schools. It seemed that wizarding Britain was falling out of favor with the continent, and Andromeda suspected it had something to do with her father’s sick fascination with the pureblood traditionalist movement. Hogwarts, however, had decided to host all the festivities at the school like normal without the tournament games._

_Bella was in her fifth year and was delighted about the Halloween Ball, which Andromeda found confusing because Bella hated their mother’s balls, even though there were clearly more interesting people at them than would be at the school ball. It would only be students and potentially a few recent graduates returning for a lark._

_Bella always conscripted her into things so easily, and getting ready for the ball was no different. It was unclear to her why she couldn’t just do it herself, but she already knew that most things her sister did were for dramatic effect. Andromeda zipped up her sister’s slim dress, tamed the wild curls, modified the height of her heels, and put glamour charms over the scratches she said she’d gotten dueling a drunk auror from Hogsmeade in the Forbidden Forest._

_“You only won because the fool was ass-up drunk.” Rabastan had grumbled. He had lost a significant amount of money to Zabini in a bet on the duel._

_“You know that’s not true.” Rod defended his bride-to-be while she silently hexed Rabastan’s DADA textbook to sprout teeth and latch onto his balls._

_It made Andromeda anxious when her sister dueled outside the family and Hogwarts, and Bella was always picking fights in Hogsmeade. As soon as she had arrived at Hogwarts, Bella had begged her with sweet words, pouty lips, and earnest eyes every week to come watch the duels. The way her sister cackled while doling out spells she shouldn’t have known gave her a sick feeling deep in her gut. She stopped going to the duels last Spring, much to Bella’s chagrin._

_Surely the acclaimed duelist, the brightest witch of their age, could apply her own makeup with ease, but here was Andromeda doing it for her. “Andy, please help me,” Bella had pouted, and she didn’t even think of telling her no. Now, she was touching up her lips with a color that wasn’t considered gaudy then, and she didn’t know why her stomach was tightly coiled with something she didn’t recognize._

_“Your hand is shaking. Stop it.” Bella made a point of scanning her face deliberately but not with concern._

_When Bella left the room with her hips swinging, she threw a smile over her shoulder that Andromeda would later come to know as predatory. “You’re such a dear, baby girl.”_

Andromeda frowned and carelessly scattered a stack of Narcissa’s documents to the floor. Her older sister had always made her feel something; she resisted naming it until that year right before Dora went to Hogwarts when Ted had to drag her stumbling up the stairs every night so that Dora wouldn’t see and smell her mother sopping wasted. _Desire, fear, reverence, lust, homesickness, love, rage, jealousy, some combination of them all._ The worst part was that people knew – well, her sisters and Ted did. Cissy usually looked out for her, but that didn’t mean she was above giving Andromeda a hard time with tiny smirks, short laughs, and pointedly arched eyebrows. 

_“Sirius wants to come.” She said cautiously. She was perusing a dingy liquor store with Bella and Rod in January of Bella’s seventh year._

_Rod snorted. “Did he tell you you were his favorite cousin again?” The last time Sirius said that to Andromeda, he’d let out a girlish shriek when a little goblin knife left Bella’s hand and sunk into the wall just over his shoulder. “Remind me again - why are we buying alcohol here when we could be raiding the Black cellar for elvish wine and old Tibetan rum?”_

_“Because we’re trying to get all of Slytherin sodding drunk without our parents knowing. Cheap liquor works just as well and gives everyone plenty of excuses for embarrassing themselves.” Bella selected a plastic bottle of shit vodka with an American label. “Probably about 20 of these. 10 of the rum.”_

_“If Sirius comes, we’ll need double that.” Rod joked. “Actually, let’s make him chug all that expired scorpion beer in the back.”_

_Bella still didn’t look up. “Andy, tell Sirius he can come if he brings Lily Evans.”_

_Rod guffawed, and Bella shot him a menacing look to cut off whatever words he was about to say._

_That night the Slytherin common room stank of alcohol. The far corner by the fireplace reeked of vomit even after a few people tried to clean it up. All their spells came crooked out of their wands and their words slurred. Loud music – muggle music, a secret prank Andromeda was playing on all the uppity purebloods – pulsated and drowned out most conversation. She watched Bella twirl with grandiosity on a table in the middle of the room, a bottle of the American vodka in her hand; she was sloshing it out onto the upturned faces with begging mouths that had gathered around her._ How were they even related?

_She grew tired later in the evening and decided to let Bella and Rod close down the party and clean up the mess, though they had both disappeared a while ago._ Maybe the betrotheds are finally fucking, _she thought, although she knew that was highly unlikely. She opened the door to the Black sisters’ quarters to a most unwelcome sight. Bella was straddling a half-naked Lily Evans on her bed, the Gryffindor’s hands clawing long red streaks into the dark-haired girl’s bare back._

_“Gods in bloody hell! Get the fuck off my fucking bed, you whores!” She was livid._

_She was not sure when or how she cast the spell, but she saw both of their eyes grow wide as the blazing kelpie head with a mane of crackling flames arose above her. She slammed the door behind her and ran down the stairs. The fiendfyre followed her, growing larger by the second. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bannisters erupt with smoke, and by the time she was down in the common room flames were already licking the furniture that the other students were scrambling on top of to escape the fire. Useless spells were being cast. An otherwise impressive 30-foot fountain of water emitted from a sixth-year’s wand was swallowed whole by the kelpie’s mouth. Hundreds of icicles rained down from ceiling and disappeared instantly into the roaring flames. Aguamenti, aqua erecto, immobulus, glacius, flame-freezing and extinguishing spells all were consumed instantly and repeatedly. Smoke billowed from the rafters and embers exploded from the floor. Panicking students began trying to get through the door into the main castle, but it had been charmed only to open with the hosts’ wands in order to preserve the party’s secrecy._

_She was seeing red, aware of the screaming and the burning, but not caring and not able to bring herself to respond._

_It was her younger sister’s voice that penetrated her madness. “Andy! End the spell! ANDY! It’s going to kill us. Stop it!”_

_She was being shaken violently, but nothing could have mattered less to her. There were so many voices screaming._

_“Narcissa, you have to get her to stop! It’s caught the tapestries! The ceiling!”_

_“She’s not responding!”_

_“Narcissa, we can’t get out! The center beam is smoking!”_

_“Zabini, can you still send a patronus?! To Slughorn! Or Dumbledore!”_

_“Do something, Narcissa!”_

_“I’m trying! It's like she's not even here!”_

_She was thrown to the floor, and a powerful slap exploded on her cheek. Narcissa’s blonde hair hung over her face like a curtain. “ANDY! Wake up! You’re going to kill us!” Another slap ripped her face to the side to no avail. “Someone find Bella now! Andy, please!” Another slap split her lip open. The smell of blood and smoke mixed in her nostrils; it was almost sweet._

_Then a rush of black hair vaulted over her. Strong arms seized under her armpits dragging her upwards into a violent hug. Bella was behind her, with one arm wrapped across her chest and the other locked behind her neck vaguely reminiscent of some wrestling move. Her sister’s voice came low and urgent in her ear. “Andy. Andy. Listen to me. You can stop this. I’m here. Just listen. I’m here.”_

_Then she blacked out and with her the fiendfyre and her magic disintegrated to the floor._

_The students told Slughorn that someone’s special potions project had gotten severely out of hand, but as usual he seemed to understand too much. In her next class with him, his skeptical gaze lingered on her for far too long. The other students were timid around her after that, and she waited out all subsequent house parties in the Room of Requirement. She started dating Ted a few months later, just for something to keep her occupied. The next year, when Lily began to be seen in public holding hands with James Potter, she fucked James in the Shrieking Shack until he cried. He begged her to meet again for months after that, but she blew him off and reveled in watching Lily’s self-esteem plummet. Ted was a saint and probably a madman for putting up with it._

_Goddamn._ Andromeda flung one of the old centaur hides covered in ritual runes against the wall. Then she cracked the mantle with two of the goblin-forged candlesticks. _I don’t want to fucking be like this._ But there was still more to haunt her.

_She was hammered._

_She and Cissy had come home from Hogwarts to the Black Manor for the weekend to celebrate her 18th birthday. Their mother had thrown a truly excellent party, though there had been a few too many convenient introductions made to potential suitors. Rod’s and Bella’s friends, two years graduated, had burst into the party late, making a big show of crashing it just as everything was winding down. She had wanted to enjoy it; really, she had. Instead, she spent the whole night, face buried in a drink, watching her older sister radiate mirth, a delicious smile on her perfect lips when her head tilted back with that laughter that trilled and thrilled. Bella was everywhere, and so was the cinnamon-sweet heat in her stomach when Bella slid her arm around her shoulders to peck her on the cheek, or when Bella danced lasciviously on the stairs, or when Bella did anything really. At one point, her dark-haired sister shoved her down onto the armchair, snatched a bottle from Rod’s hand, climbed onto her lap, and ran her hand through Andromeda’s hair, getting a good grip on it to force her head backwards and pour an excess of that liquid into her mouth. She let it go on for too long before making Bella stop, just to have her head forced back into position again after a moment’s pause. She had to explode the bottle in her sister’s hand to end it, but her stomach almost dropped out of her body when Bellatrix said “You’re so_ fun _” in her ear and sauntered away. When everyone finally left and her sisters had gone upstairs for the night, she snagged the fullest bottle of firewhiskey she could find, and took it to her room, planning to drown the fire in her belly with it until she forgot her older sister or died, whichever came first._

_It didn’t work. Now she was in just her underwear and one of Ted’s Tears for Fears t-shirts, swaying down the dark hallway that led to Bella’s room. She was humming some off-key ditty that she didn’t know when she was sober, stopping only to curse colorfully when she tripped over nothing and crashed into the wall. The doorknob to her older sister's room loomed in front of her, dancing in and out of focus; she swiped at it and missed._

_Thin pale fingers gently seized her wrist. “Hey, what are you doing?” Her younger sister was at her side whispering._

_“M’ goin to see Bella.”_

_“What do you need?”_

_“I juss wanna talk t’hr.” She was slurring something fierce._

_“Why?”_

_“S’none of your business, Cisthy.”_

_An irritating look of realization dawned on her blonde sister’s face followed by one of stern warning. “Andy, this is a bad idea. You’re drunk.”_

_“M not drink.”_

_“What’s a bad idea? You know I love those.” Bella appeared in her now open doorway. She had a small blanket wrapped loosely around her, revealing her naked shoulders and cleavage draped with those silky black curls that were dashing even when unkempt. “Especially when they involve Andy.”_

_She lurched toward Bellatrix, but Cissy caught her around the waist with both arms. “Nope, nope, nope. You need to go to bed.”_

_“B’lla, I wan turk, thalk, talk to you.”_

_“You can talk in the morning. Not right now.” Narcissa tugged at her waist._

_Bella looked at her curiously, a small smile beginning to flit across her face. “Baby girl! Did you finally grow a pair?”_

_“Bella!” Cissy’s voice was sharp._

_Her older sister stepped toward her. “I am very interested to hear what all that liquid courage has you dying to tell me.”_

_“You are not helping!” Cissy spat at the careless, smirking woman before planting herself firmly between them._

_“Le’mme in, Bell. I want yy– “ Her desperate whine was cut off by Narcissa’s hand forcefully clamping over her mouth._

_“Ok, you're going to bed now.” Her blonde sister’s firm but gentle shove sent her reeling backwards, her legs as unsteady from Bella’s triumphant leering and low chuckle as from the alcohol._

_“Go ‘way, Cissy.”_

_“Don’t make me stupefy you, Andy. I swear to the gods.” Cissy advanced at her, corralling her back down the hallway away from their older sister and catching her repeatedly when she tripped over her own feet._

_She woke up in her own bed the next morning, surrounded by a silvery-red self-loathing. She returned to Hogwarts without seeing Bella. The next time they did see each other, she was already pregnant._

Andromeda slammed her fists down on the table and let out a guttural howl. Why after all these goddamn years, after going through so much, was this coming back?

“I like when you get mad.” A sultry voice made her freeze. “Always have. It’s exciting.” She heard the intimidating steps that accompanied Bellatrix’ characteristic sashay coming closer to her. “Greengrass said you were practically a goddess of war when you stormed the Wizengamot. He let me take a peek at the memory as part of the deal. You were marvelous. I was… proud, you might say.”

Andromeda spun around to find her older sister already far too close. She backed away too quickly because she found an wall instead of the door. Her slick palms pressed flat against the cold stone in desperation; Bellatrix always caught her too quickly, too easily.

“Andy, I know. I know how I make you feel.” Bellatrix’ breath was warm and fresh on her lips.

She struggled to breathe. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She didn’t think she’d ever sounded less confident in her life.

“I’m flattered, truly. You are so attractive – always have been. Maybe even more now than when we were young, which is saying something. The idea really is rather titillating.” She cocked her head just enough to accentuate the way she flicked her eyes to Andromeda’s mouth.

Andromeda was petrified. Bellatrix was close enough to place her whole forearm against the wall comfortably just above Andromeda’s shoulder. For the thousandth time she cursed the Dark Lord, this time for giving Bella back the body of her mid-20s. She felt lightheaded. “Bella – “

“Trust me. I did consider it – multiple times actually.” Bellatrix raised her hand and began to trace Andromeda’s bottom lip with her thumb and forefinger, tugging at it softly to punctuate the end of her sentence. “I just – “

“Bella, please stop!” She gasped.

Her dark-haired, dark-eyed sister, too stunning for her own good, did stop. She smirked deviously, patted Andromeda’s cheek with a cupped hand, and said, “Anything for you, little sister,” before stepping aside to release her.

She rushed from the room, only barely registering the young woman she bumped shoulders with on her way out.

**

“Something I should know?” Hermione was leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed.

Bellatrix was examining her fingernails. “My sister and I have a complicated relationship.” 

“Clearly.”

“It’s been like that ever since I can remember.”

“Do you feel about her the way she feels about you?”

“She would be devastated to hear you talk like it’s so obvious. But no, I don’t.”

“Then why did you do what you just did?”

“Because I miss torturing people. And she makes it so easy.”

Hermione furrowed her brow. “Are you kidding me…?”

“It’s ok. She’s ok. She can handle herself. Finally.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“Andromeda is way stronger than I am - than any of us. She’s the most powerful Black in generations. If she didn’t want me to mess with her, she could easily stop me.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works. This is not ok for you to do.”

Bellatrix threw her hands up. “Look, I’ve spent my whole life looking out for her. She shouldn’t have needed it. The way she ran from her magic was selfish, silly, and dangerous for the rest of us, but she’s coming around. She can handle it.”

“It doesn’t really seem like it she can. And her magical power in no way justifies you manipulating her feelings like that, no matter what those feelings are.”

“I’m not manipulating her. Andromeda does what she wants. I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m being my authentic goddamn self – to you and to her.”

For some reason, Hermione decided to accept this even though it was patently awful and fully contrary to what she believed was right. She put the whole thing out of her mind and allowed herself to be dragged back into the dark witch’s bed, only later allowing herself to dwell on the image of the beautiful, auburn-haired woman working hard not to tremble against her sister’s body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I really don't like is how obsessed people of all genders and of most convictions are with the trope of the distressed, beautiful woman. Herein, I reveal my own hypocrisy. Not incidentally, that hypocrisy is a large part of what this story is about.
> 
> I may be AWOL for a few days through the weekend, but I am not leaving, I swear - not after this. Thanks for reading and being awesome.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	19. Fumbling with both Guilt and Grace

Slowly but surely, Hermione began to be privy to the Black empire’s planning without committing to them in any capacity. Bellatrix would sweet talk her into staying through dinner into the evening, where drinks were taken to the lounge so that the three sisters could strategize. She was surprised that neither Narcissa nor Andromeda put up a fight; they didn’t even acknowledge her presence as unusual. The middle sister never mentioned anything about the morning she found them in bed, and it didn’t seem to Hermione that she treated her any differently. She learned about new alliances and vassalage agreements, most for a limited number of generations but a few in perpetuity. She listened in great detail to a muggle expansion proposal that seemed highly problematic involving heretofore protected wizarding land, but Andromeda’s apparent control over the situation soothed her fears. She was fascinated when Bellatrix called their house elves to weigh in on a trade deal or adjudication that would impact magical creatures. She never saw Harry or Draco at the Manor, though Narcissa spoke of her dealings with them often. She came to love – if she was allowed to use the word – watching the three sisters when they bent close together over a table inspecting a document, a sizzling something cycling from Andromeda to the others and back to her chest again. Bellatrix never ceased to give her middle sister a hard time, and only once did Andromeda react violently, throwing her to the floor like a ragdoll. The auburn-haired woman sobbed pleading apologies for a long time afterwards, and it was Bellatrix, not Narcissa as Hermione expected, who held her and rubbed her back, murmuring comforting words until her tears ended.

When Hermione spent time with Harry, Ginny, and Ron – and occasionally Luna and Neville – they never spoke about Harry’s involvement with the Black Empire, not even if they visited Grimmauld Place for supper. The Potters looked like new money and spent their wealth lavishly for their friends. Once, Ron asked her about any offers from the Blacks, to which she replied truthfully that she wasn’t doing business with Malfoy Apothecaries. Otherwise, no one had any reason to ask her about the Black family, and for that she was grateful. She hadn’t been able to explain to them why she ran away after the Death Eater trials so long ago; there was no way she could explain her relationship with Bellatrix now. She could barely explain it to herself: some combination of gentleness, patience, safety, riotous sex, unconditional acceptance, absurdity, and maybe even love. 

_Bellatrix Lestrange and all her baggage._

She told Hermione once that she didn’t want to talk about Azkaban. “It took too much of my life. It’s still taking my life. Most of my quiet thoughts, most of my dreams, are all about that place. I don’t want it to take up space in our relationship too.”

“Bella, it does. It probably takes space in all your relationships,” she’d whispered. Every now and then, a miserable dream that Bellatrix couldn’t wake from disturbed Hermione in the middle of the night, and no amount of consoling ended the woman’s suffering before the memory was done with her.

“I know it does. I just can’t give it any more of me. Please, leave it alone.”

She thought that maybe nothing about being with Bellatrix, or any of the Blacks for that matter, was healthy – except for the part where she felt so alive when she was with them. The thought closely resembled something Bellatrix said about the Dark Lord, so she spent a great deal of effort re-writing it in her head: On the surface, spending so much time with the Black sisters was unwise, but they were helping her heal from the war in more ways than she imagined possible. _Still too similar, but that would have to do._ And when had she started to refer to him as “the Dark Lord” instead of “Voldemort”?

**

One day, she saw a bedraggled Ron shucking his auror robes to step out into muggle London in the rain with his head hung low. Her friend looked miserable – a type of misery she hadn’t seen in him even during the war. She quickened her step to catch him.

“Hey, Ron!”

“’Mione,” he mumbled. She put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t look up.

“What’s up? What’s wrong?”

“They’re taking mum and dad’s house.”

“The Burrow? Who?” She was alarmed.

“The Burrow. All our land around it.”

She didn’t know any land around it belonged to them. “Why?”

“A muggle expansion of some sort. The Wizengamot approved it yesterday. The Ministry is forcing them to sign over the deed to the house and all the property this afternoon. They’ve barred all us kids from being there when they do it. 

“What? No, they can’t do that. They wouldn’t do that. Andromeda said she wouldn’t let the motion pass.” She didn’t realize in the moment that was revealing her proximity to the Black sisters.

“The Black family seat and all the family’s vassals were on the list that signed it. Saw it myself.” He let out a single sob. “There’s not going to be anything left for us.”

“No, Ron. We’re not going to let this happen.”

“We can’t do anything about it, Hermione. They’re taking the Hogwarts grounds too. If they can take the land at Hogwarts, they can take anything. Shacklebolt hasn’t even stepped in.”

“No, no. I’m going to find Bella.”

“Bella?” Ron questioned. But Hermione was gone.

**

Hermione found Bellatrix at the Manor, flicking through a copy of a Greek tragedy so ancient it could’ve been an original. The dark-haired woman only barely looked up from it when Hermione cried out.

“The Ministry is taking the Burrow!” She was out of breath.

“Not surprising. The Weasleys owe a bit of money. They’ll just loan out some land and build a new house; it’ll be fine.”

“Ron said they’re taking all of their land. For the muggle expansion project. The one that’s supposed to annex the Hogwarts grounds.”

Bellatrix leaned forward, suddenly very interested. “All of their land?!”

“Yes, apparently they own a lot of land around the Burrow.”

“A lot!” The woman scoffed. “They own bloody half of the land between King’s Cross and Hogwarts.”

“What?” Hermione was incredulous. “The Weasley’s don’t have that kind money.”

“No, they don’t. They’re the dirt poor now, but they still have a shit ton of land in their inheritance. They were just too proud to sell it, even when they were stupidly giving everything away. Can’t say I blame them honestly. It’s pretty damn grand. But if they sell it to the Ministry, at least they’ll have some money again."

“The Ministry isn’t letting them sell it. They’re just taking it. I saw Ron leaving Diagon Alley and he looked like shit.”

“I guess they don’t have any protective agreements strong enough to have leverage in the Ministry anymore. But Andy said she’d take care of it; she said the counter-proposal would pass.”

“Ron said her signature was on the motion to pass the original proposal and seize the land.”

Bellatrix focused her gaze on Hermione sharply. “The hell? When’s this happening?”

“Probably right now. I’m going to go to the Ministry. Can you – will you help?”

Bellatrix disappeared long enough to find a robe emblazoned with an intimidating Black family crest on the back. Hermione apparated them to Diagon Alley, causing quite a stir as people crowded and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Bellatrix Lestrange on the tail of the golden war hero. Security in the Ministry was unsure how to respond to them. They received “Ms. Granger, um, Mrs. Lestrange. Um, excuse me…,” several times over, but Hermione pushed on until she found the conference room where she suspected the Weasleys would be.

When she burst through the door, she froze, suddenly aware that she had no plan. A frog-ish man perched at the large redwood desk, pen in hand, inspecting a document. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sat with their shoulders cowed front of him.

“See, you’ll initial here, here, and here and sign here. Truly sorry, Arthur, the Weasley parcel was one of the more impressive Sacred 28 inheritances. Shame to see it go,” he was saying, truly not sorry about what was happening. “Hello? Is that Ms. Granger?”

Hermione took that as her cue to march straight to the desk, ignoring Mrs. Weasley’s exasperated but defeated sigh. (“Hermione, what are you doing here?”) Instead of responding to Mrs. Weasley, she stuck a finger in the man’s face. “You can’t bloody do this. You can’t take a family’s home from them without warning.”

“I’m afraid we have to, Ms. Granger. The treaty with muggle Britain requires it.”

“Bullshit. You at least have to pay them what it’s worth.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Granger. The Wizengamot hasn’t approved the funds. They’ve decided it’s for the greater good of the wizarding world and requires immediate action. Several specialized auror teams have been deployed to seize the property if there is forceful protest.

“What the bloody hell is this?” She raged on, unaware of Bellatrix sliding into an empty chair next to Mr. Weasley.

“Arthur.” Bellatrix thrust a slip of paper into his hand. “Sign this.”

“Be-Bellatrix.” His voice was hoarse. Mrs. Weasley looked at her as if seeing a ghost, which was reasonable given their last meeting at Battle of Hogwarts.

“Hurry the fuck up.”

“Wha-what is this?”

“It’s one of the old contracts.” Molly observed quietly.

Bellatrix nodded. “It’s a bill of sale and an agreement of administration and non-seizure that will disrupt the current deed transfer. The Black family pays you the entire worth of your property – which, if you don’t recall, is a lot of fucking money. We own your land, but we agree to not take, sell, or alter it without your consent. The Weasleys are deputy landholders and managers.”

“What? Why would you do this?”

“Fucking sign it if you want to keep your inheritance. The money will show up in your account tonight.”

“Arthur,” his wife interrupted his hesitation. “It might be better than losing everything right now.” He looked at her incredulously, so she added, “Isn’t it better to be beholden to another one of the old families than to be at the mercy of the Ministry?”

He scribbled his signature, and Bellatrix stood triumphantly just as Hermione’s desperate voice indicated she was losing her argument with the frog man. 

“Parkinson!” Bellatrix’ voice boomed. “This deal is over.”

“Mrs. Lestrange. I’m unsure what your business could be here.” The waver in his voice did not match his words.

She slapped the signed document down on the table. “The Black family has recently come into ownership of the Weasley property.”

“But that’s not a deed, Mrs. Lestrange.”

“If you’ll look closely, Parkinson, this is a document type that long predates the use of the deed and is charmed to withstand destruction, forgery, and annulments attempted without the Heads of family. Since it is tied directly to the family magic itself, it far surpasses that deed in authenticity and power. It’s complete with Mr. Weasley’s magical signature as well as my own which is endowed with the full force of the House of Black. But since the muggles especially find some pitiful significance in a deed, you’ll hand it over to me at once as well.”

“Mrs. Lestrange, this is all very impressive, but the Ministry doesn’t recognize you as the official liaison for negotiations with the Black family.” He reached to inspect the document anyway.

Bellatrix waited for him to yelp from the pain that sizzled his fingertips when he touched the paper before pinning both of his arms to the table, a small knife curled in one hand. Hermione made a mental note to check if the goblin knife she’d had for the better part of five years after the fateful day at Malfoy Manor was still in her nightstand.

“I am the Black family head, elected by generations of blood inheritance that can only be changed by rituals that no one in all of Britain, much less the Ministry, has any idea how to execute. Everything the House does gets approved by me before it is put into action. Now you’re going to take your warrant back to whichever peon you report to, and you’re going to inform the Wizengamot that the head of the Black family is very interested in cooperating with them to build their pet muggle project in another, more suitable tract of Black land – or you can experience how talented I am with a knife, which is at least as talented as I was with a wand.”

The man gulped. “But it has to run through the Weasley property to connect with the rest of its proposed route.”

She placed another slip of paper on the table, and he jumped. “This, you can see, is payment to the Ministry twice the value of the entire rest of the land being annexed for the project and a guarantee to negotiate potential Ministry revenue from the property itself. Plus, there’s a hefty tip for you. I am confident you will be fired immediately if your supervisor finds out you refused to receive a check of this amount on her behalf.”

The man only nodded. She snatched the deed from his hands and dropped it into Mr. Weasley’s lap without looking at him as she sauntered out the door. 

“Congratulations, Arthur. You’re the richest Weasley that’s ever lived.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday Morning. Happy March. Chapters 19 and 20 depend on each other closely, so I will try to have 20 up by the end of the day. Have to go to work and earn that dough though. It's 9 degrees F, and I gotta swing some picks into some ice with some kiddos.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	20. Fumbling with both Damnation and Salvation

Hermione escorted Mr. and Mrs. Weasley home while Bellatrix ostensibly tied up some loose ends with the purchases. It wasn’t until she had already spent half an hour at the Burrow consoling her friends that she became anxious about having let Bellatrix waltz through the halls of the Ministry alone, without magic and without an advocate. To what extent would the Black family name protect the woman these days? 

Mr. Weasley asked her a halting question about how she and Bellatrix were related in the events of the afternoon. She used an answer that she knew the Weasleys would accept, but it felt almost like a betrayal coming out of her mouth. “She owes me a favor for saving her life.”

Hermione returned to the Manor in time to see Andromeda entering ahead of her under the ornate “Toujours Pur” emblazoned over the entryway. Shedding her coat, she headed to the Great Room where she heard the sisters’ voices.

“So what other things are you fucking up in the Wizengamot?” said Bellatrix’ haughtiest voice.

Andromeda flinched at the affront. “What are you talking about?”

“We,” Bellatrix gestured at Hermione., “just came from a meeting in which the Weasley fortune was almost seized by the Ministry without compensation for the muggle expansion project. I thought you were leading a counter-proposal, but your signature is on the original. What else are you not telling us?”

“Bella, it’s complicated. I had to.”

“You had to do the exact opposite of what you said you were going to do? I don’t get it.”

“The situation changed.”

“Your job is to deal with changing situations without screwing them up.” The dark-haired sister didn’t look as peeved as she sounded.

“They were going to imprison you again!” Andromeda lost her composure and yelled. 

“Excuse me?” Narcissa blinked.

“The Wizengamot voted to pass my counter-proposal only with the corollary that you would be seized immediately and detained for research indefinitely. They want to study the long-term effects of magic removal, and you are the best candidate for a blood magic research project since Rod died in custody.”

Narcissa was still the only one who seemed able to speak. “How many seats voted for it?”

“Everyone but our bound voting bloc. I had to kill the bill while we were still in session somehow, so I re-proposed the original. It was passed almost unanimously.”

“They’ve figured out how to force our hand. We need to re-formulate our strategies now.” Narcissa’s mind was already back to the drawing board.

The dark-haired woman shrugged. She took her time selecting four thin-stemmed glasses from the room’s cupboard and called for some elvish wine before speaking to them. “Well, at least we acquired all the Weasley land today.” She filled each glass almost to the brim. Looking very smug, she carefully handed one to each of the other women, her sisters gaping at her. “For a very modest price I might add. The entire Weasley inheritance is subject to the Black family in perpetuity. Cheers!”

They clinked glasses. Andromeda stuttered while Narcissa opened her mouth to congratulate her sister. Hermione sat waiting for Bellatrix to reveal the rest, now beginning to understand the magnitude of the eldest Black sister’s actions that day.

“Oh, I almost forgot. We also own the Forbidden Forest and the Hogwarts grounds – including the Black Lake and its water rights.”

“Fuck Merlin’s mother.” Narcissa’s blue eyes lost their iciness, and a delighted grin replaced her usual smirk. Hermione had never heard the youngest Black sister curse before. She had to admit, she looked dazzling doing it. 

Andromeda was another matter. “The Forbidden Forest…. Hogwarts… But that’s…”

“Not the building; just the land. I wouldn’t do that to you; your magic and the Hogwarts castle would be a doozy of a combo and absolutely impossible to deal with. Don’t worry - payment came equally from the Lestrange, Malfoy, and Black accounts.” 

The auburn-haired woman’s eyes darted back and forth before they took on a vexed anxiety. “Oh my god, Bella. Tell me you didn’t set this whole thing up?” 

Bellatrix only gave her a devilish smile. 

“Oh my god, you did, didn’t you? The expansion project, the Wizengamot vote, the seizure of the Weasley property – all of it?”

The dark witch was silent while she traced her fingertips on the rim of her glass.

“Was any of it real?”

“It was all real. It would have all happened. That’s the beauty of it. We faked nothing, and no one is the wiser. Everyone involved believes they acted freely on their own grand ideas.”

“What the hell were you thinking? You could have been arrested again and probably killed! What if I’d done what you asked and let them pass the fucking bill?”

“But you didn’t, did you, Andy? I knew you wouldn’t do what I asked. You wouldn’t stick to the plan. You wouldn’t let them pass it. You are predictably independent, and you performed wonderfully.”

“And you set them up. The Weasleys. You stole everything from them. It’s all they had, Bella!”

Bellatrix shrugged again. “Their loss. Although, from my perspective they’re considerably better off than they were before.”

“You’re the worst person I know.”

“And what exactly does that make you, Andy?”

The woman refused to bite the baited question. “You are a nightmare.” 

“Is that what you’re calling your wet dreams these days?”

Andromeda’s hands were covering her face, but an explosion sounded above Bellatrix’ head. The dark-haired witch laughed salaciously as chunks of stone rained down on her from the gouge Andromeda’s magic made in the wall.

“Bella, I fucking adore you.” Narcissa pecked her oldest sister on the cheek before prancing out of the room.

“What about you, baby girl?” The dark-haired woman offered her other cheek to her middle sister with a wink.

“I’ll kill you,” was the muttered reply.

“No doubt.” Then Bellatrix practically skipped away, leaving Hermione alone with the tortured middle Black sister.

There was a long enough silence for Hermione to have reasonably chosen to leave several times before the woman spoke, but she chose to stay.

“You must think I’m crazy.”

Hermione watched the woman’s elegant hands fidget inelegantly in her lap. They were both awkward. “I prefer not to.” Besides, she was also willingly putting up with the eldest Black sister’s sick games.

“Maybe I am. All that time away. All that time getting better, getting over losing them. Just to run right back into the thick of all the messy manipulation and desperation.”

“Seems like it would be hard to stay away.” Hermione was probably speaking for the both of them.

“It was.” The woman wrinkled her forehead in an intangible pain. “It took everything I had not to come back earlier, to not leave my husband and my child. Which is terrible. There wasn’t even anything to come back to for a while.”

“Maybe it - they - couldn’t exist without you.” Hermione wasn’t sure this was a helpful thing to say, but she was thinking about her conversation with Bellatrix about her sister’s power. 

“It couldn’t exist without Bella. Nothing I love or fear would.”

“I’m not so sure, Andy. You are….” She searched for a suitable word. 

“Sick? Egregious? Cursed? It would make things so much easier if I knew I were cursed.”

“I was going to say ‘magnificent.’” _Shit._

The woman slumped her shoulders with a sigh. “Do you love my sister?”

“I suppose so.” Hermione proceeded carefully into uncharted territory. “Do you?”

“Hell if I know. Not the way I love Cissy. Or Dora. Or even…” The woman paused, looking miserable. “Or even Ted.”

“I think about Dora often,” Hermione said softly because it was the only thing that made sense to say. 

“So do I. All the time.”

Hermione didn’t have anything to offer the tormented woman, and that grieved her. She surprised herself by putting a timid hand on the woman’s shoulder, brushing aside soft auburn curls to do so, then pulling her into her own arms in a tender embrace. She met no resistance, and the woman collapsed into her and sent a wave of forlorn magic through her body. Without warning, she was pitched into inky blackness, emerging into a scene in the Black Manor’s east wing.

_A very young, devastatingly beautiful Andromeda, probably still a Black, cast a spiteful glare over her shoulder. Deep purple bloomed from her. Disgust had never looked so lovely, so perfect, on a face. A tall man loomed nearby._

_“I said no, Riddle, and I meant it.”_

_“Andromeda. Don’t be unreasonable.”_

_“I’m not unreasonable. I’m doing what I think is right.”_

_“You’re making excuses. You know Hogwarts is holding you back. Your father is holding you back. Your privilege is holding you back. Creating a new, falsely superior moral code for yourself is just going to hold you back even more.”_

_The woman stiffened. “Don’t patronize me.”_

_“I’m not. I’m speaking the truth, and you know it. Your power far exceeds the rest of your family, probably anyone you know. You deserve to use it to its fullest extent.”_

_“I’ll use it the way I see fit.”_

_“You aren’t using it. It’s using you. It’ll destroy you if you keep repressing it like this.”_

_“Riddle! I know you’re a fucking halfblood. Don’t use the facts of my own blood status against me.”_

_The man chuckled. “The irony of that statement.”_

_Andromeda turned. She looked as if she were about to spit at him. “Your cause is evil. Your manipulation of my father and the others is awful. You will fail, because you are wrong.”_

_“But I am not wrong about you, Andromeda. You are the future of the House of Black. You can be the future of wizarding Britain if you join me. I am not so arrogant as to deny that you could command the allegiance of the people far more than I ever will.”_

_“I will never try to.”_

_“Then you’re wasting yourself.” The man was beginning to show irritation. “All that magic, look at it flowing from you even now. All that magic wasted on someone who’s too weak to use it. Bellatrix wouldn’t waste it.”_

_“Bella wouldn’t join you either!”_

_“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. She is less scrupulous and would likely find it appealing. It would be slightly disappointing to have her instead of you, but she will suffice if necessary.”_

_“Stay the fuck away from her.”_

_“I will if you join me.”_

_“You’re not going to blackmail me. That’s not how this is going to go.”_

_The man sneered. “You know she will accept the offer, and, even though she’s strong, you know her magic won’t be able to withstand the sheer force of mine the way yours can. She will be legendary working with me, but she won’t make it. If you really cared about her, then you wouldn’t resist me.”_

_“I do! You’re wrong! I swear to the gods, Riddle - ” Andromeda spluttered._

_But he interrupted her as he exited the room. “I’ll give you one more chance.”_

_“You stay the fuck away from her!” Andromeda screamed as magic slammed in a tidal wave against the wall in the direction of his receding back._

The woman and her surroundings blurred together in a swirling wash of sepia that coalesced into another scene.

_Andromeda, close to the same age she was in the present day, stood with her wand at her side, hair rippling violently over her shoulders and black hooded robe, glaring cold hatred at two bedraggled men bound to rickety chairs with heavy cord. Their faces were scruffy, eyes hollow, and skin creased and dirty. They were also terrified._

_“Andromeda, please!” One of the men begged. “It was an accident. I would never try to kill someone who is family. I was aiming at someone else, and she stepped into the spell.”_

__

_“Bullshit, Rabastan! I’ve seen the memories. Ripped them out of Molly Weasley myself.”_

__

_“Please… What do you want from us? We’ll turn ourselves into the Ministry if that’s what it takes. How does that sound? You can take us in yourself. I heard Shacklebolt has been paying the militias royally for turning the remaining Death Eaters to the aurors, and you’ll be able to claim that reward.”_

__

_“No, Rab. The Ministry will never be able give my husband and my daughter the justice they deserve; it doesn’t even want to try. But I can, and I will.”_

__

_“Please, Andromeda. I’ll do anything you ask.”_

__

_“Shut up. I’m tired of hearing you speak.”_

__

_She crossed the short distance to him like lightning, cupped one palm around the bottom of his jaw so that her fingers spread across his mouth and cheekbones and slammed his head back. It made an ungodly cracking sound. She held it in place while she jerked his bare forearm up to her face and closed her teeth around the man’s skin and began to tear at it. His inhuman shriek went on and on in increasing octaves until Andromeda raised her head with a huge chunk of his skin hanging from her teeth. She tossed his bloody arm away from her and removed the flesh from her mouth. The strip of skin contained the entire dark mark tattoo which was writhing like a dying spider. She slipped it into her pocket before turning to the other man, disgust and blood marring her beautiful face._

__

_“Andromeda." The man was shaking with fear. "I didn’t do anything to Ted or Dora. I swear. If you saw the memories, then you know that. I wasn’t even inside Hogwarts during the battle. I did a lot of wrong things, but I didn’t hurt them.”_

__

_“You’re right, Antonin. You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time today._ Avada Kedavra. _” The man slumped forward against the ropes._

__

_Andromeda wiped her face with the back of her arm and cast a spell with words from a very foreign, probably extant language. Rabastan, a red handprint already blistering on his face, convulsed so violently that his chair keeled over, and he continued seizing and screaming while the witch turned her back on the two men and strode out of the building. On her way out, she licked two fingers and flicked them dismissively over her shoulder, and it exploded into roaring flames._

__

Hermione was catapulted back through the inky blackness into the present-day Black Manor in time to feel the woman shove her away aggressively. They both rushed back from each other, each trembling for different reasons.

__

“How the _hell_ did you do that?” the auburn-haired woman hissed.

__

“I didn’t do it!” Hermione was wide-eyed and bewildered. She had previously thought that carrying on a romantic relationship with Bellatrix Lestrange was the most inconceivable thing she would experience, but now she was reconsidering that. “You did it. You had to have. I don’t know legilimency.”

__

“I would never have shown you that!”

__

Mutual disbelief fomented between them as they each tried to decide if they would now distrust the other. Andromeda looked like a cornered, feral cat on the brink of attack. Hermione was doing her best to process multiple things simultaneously while also remaining present enough to navigate the woman in front of her. Andromeda had been the Dark Lord’s first recruit, his first choice; Andromeda brutally murdered two pleading men after the war was over and the new judiciary process for Death Eaters was already under way; mere physical contact between them had just thrust Hermione deep into the darkest recesses of the older woman’s mind.

__

After several moments, Hermione dared to speak something else. “Does Bella know?”

__

“No.”

__

“Who does?”

__

“No one. Except now you.”

__

“Why did that just happen?”

__

“You underestimate your magic.” Andromeda licked her lips with suspicion, muscles still loaded and waiting to spring into fight or flight.

__

“I won’t tell her, Andy.”

__

“About the memories or about what just happened?”

__

“Either, I guess. If that’s what you want.” Hermione felt like she was balancing on a very thin wire above some abyss that she had never before noticed.

__

“That’s what I want.” The abyss crinkled with a static-y magic.

__

What else could Hermione do? Their silence formed a truce between them, and the thin wire widened. The older woman relaxed somewhat, and the younger let herself breathe normally again.

__

Hermione thought that it shouldn’t have been so easy to overlook Andromeda’s newly revealed unsavoriness and senselessly horrific actions, but in that moment she very simply just moved on. She already knew what she wanted, so she continued to venture cautiously.

__

“Do you remember the day you stormed into Dumbledore’s office when Harry, Ron, and I were there?”

__

Andromeda closed her eyes and snorted. “Yes. Why?”

__

“Some of the students said you kissed the Head Boy and nearly killed him.”

__

The woman rolled her eyes, but amusement threatened to turn up her lips.

__

“Others said you tied him up with real, live snakes. Oh, and some of them thought you burned off his cheeks with goo from his eyes.”

__

It worked. Auburn curls shivered to accompany a chuckle. The woman bit her lip in a small smile and said, “One of those things might be true.”

__

Hermione felt very pleased with herself and basked in the return of the magnificent woman’s favor. The abyss continued to yawn at her from below, but she now stood comfortably on a narrow path above it, side by side with Andromeda Tonks.

__

**

__

Almost four years had passed since the Death Eater trials when Hermione stood in Bellatrix Lestrange’s old bedroom in the Black Manor getting ready for the sisters’ second ball. The first had been a flash-bang event meant to take the wizarding world by surprise: it was announced, it was happening, and then it was over. Narcissa made sure this next one was publicized well in advance. She made formal invitations during trade negotiations. Harry dropped hints about it at the Ministry. Draco – who, it turned out, took after his oldest aunt in many ways – sweet-talked and bullied his apothecary clientele and his those in his budding nightlife business into attending with various stipulations. Andromeda made it clear she expected both her allies and enemies to be there, the latter of which couldn’t refuse the threatening invitations given them. 

__

Bellatrix just let it all happen. She was in the long process of transitioning all Lestrange accounts, properties, and blood claims into the Black estate since Rod had mysteriously passed away in the care of the Ministry professionals in charge of the Death Eater research post-trial. At some point she was going to let herself grieve him, but she hadn’t undertaken that task yet. She and Rod had been thick as thieves in school and decided that their arranged marriage was rather fortuitous for them, given their mutual understanding. They did sleep together a few times, mostly out of curiosity, before agreeing to just wingman for one another. There were also more than a few nights when he cradled her in the crook of his neck as she cried herself to sleep after Andromeda’s departure. They had a closeness that no completely platonic or completely romantic relationship provided either of them. She missed him in Azkaban, when she was lucid enough to remember. After the break-out, they never could reach each other across the void of unending fog and despair that the prison wedged between them. She ached for him again after the trials when she finally heard about his death. Preserving his estate with the Black property contracts really did seem the least she could do; it was an inconsequential thing that Rabastan’s inheritance came along with it.

__

Hermione was honored when the dark-haired witch told her these things about Rod. The intimate conversation was part of the reason she said yes when Bellatrix asked her to accompany her to the ball. In the mirror, she smoothed the front of her shimmering red dress. The rings on her hands absorbed the color and shone out a softer hue tinged with silver. Matching necklace and earrings stood out around her shoulders. The fact that the strapless dress also dipped down to show her bare lower back had concerned her; a patronizing house elf assured her it would be fine but cast an extra sticking charm to make her feel better. With the edges of the top layer of her hair swept back in a braid hanging loosely over the rest of it, she decided she looked nice – almost remarkable, even.

__

A tap on the door was followed by Narcissa’s blonde head. “Come. It’s time.”

__

She smoothed her dress again and followed the youngest Black to the landing behind the staircase. “Must it be a big thing again?”

__

The youngest Black sister laughed. “Again? We never do anything small.”

__

“Damn right.” Charcoal eyes and hair materialized out of the shadows; the woman made a point of dramatically looking Hermione up and down, per usual. “Looks like you got the memo about it.” Her tongue flicked out between parted lips. “Oh look, baby girl’s here to spoil the mood.”

__

Arriving, Andromeda shot her older sister a withering look. Then she turned to Hermione. “Are you sure you want to do this?” There was a haunting in her voice that subdued her sisters. “Once you step out there, there’s no going back. It’ll never be the same.”

__

A thousand things jockeyed for attention in Hermione’s mind, as she stood transfixed before the entirety of the Black family magic simmering in the figure before her. 

__

_Playing grown-up in the living room at her birthday party. Her father’s delight in Diagon Alley and Hogwarts. That coffee cup she hadn’t even taken a sip of before she left them forever. Devouring books about horcruxes and the Black family in the library. Molly Weasley surrounded by a pile of bodies. Bella’s magic draining before the Wizengamot. The fish smell that permeated her entire being in that muggle bar. Equations for dark magic. Substituting ingredients, spells, people. The guts of Grimmauld Place belching magic. Andromeda and Teddy at Bella’s trial. The portrait of Ashlys Black. Katie Bell’s fingers on her inner arm. Pieces of shattered Bella suspended mid-air. Andromeda resting the back of her head on Hermione’s kitchen cabinet. The woman she’d stayed with in Germany. Narcissa’s glazed eyes in front of Neville’s parents. The first time she kissed Bella. Andromeda trembling with lust. Andromeda trembling with rage. Muggle music. Ron in the rain. Bella and her shield collapsing on the Wizengamot floor. Andromeda storming through a dozen halls a dozen times. The birds, so many years of little birds. Fireworks. Bella forcing herself through the light at the Department of Ministries. Andromeda’s tortured soul pouring out through her eyes. Andromeda, Andromeda, Andromeda. Magic isn’t inherently dark, Hermione; the witch makes it dark._

__

Her own eyes were locked with the endless auburn ones of her friend’s mother, her lover’s sister. The Manor reverberated with an exponential magic: purple, gold, red, blue, silver rising from the floor to claw at the two women. She wished her little birds weren’t spinning in a tizzy above her and was almost embarrassed when the older woman gently scooped one out of the air. Hermione readily gave the woman her hand when she reached for it. Andromeda carefully cupped the bird in its owner’s palm and then folded her own around them; together they were soft, strong, and safe. Neither broke eye contact to see the other two sisters holding their breath, unsure of how to react to the magic threatening to erupt through the ceiling.

__

“They shouldn’t have that much chemistry,” Bellatrix whispered.

__

“Which one are you jealous of?” The comment earned the blonde woman a thudding flick behind her ear.

__

Then Hermione spoke only to the middle Black sister. “I do want this. I’m ready.”

__

The magic didn’t collapse, but the birds disappeared into the overwhelming, glorious woman’s chest when they separated. Bellatrix offered an arm, and Narcissa’s fingertips in the small of Hermione’s back pushed her forward. She took a deep breath. The lights were blinding. 

__

**

__

Ron blinked and rubbed his eyes to help them recover from the lights bursting forth from the staircase. All the air expelled from his lungs as his heart sank. Under the menacing glint of the “Toujours Pur” engraved in the arch stood the woman he thought he loved most in the world with her hand resting intimately in the crook of the arm of the darkest witch he was aware of, emerging from pure light into a new life in a new world. She and the ex-Death Eater slowly descended the center of the stairs, stopping halfway down to share a shy look. Then, to his horror, Hermione lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes at the audience while Bellatrix Lestrange looked on with adoration. The guests erupted in the loudest roar of applause he’d heard in his life.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you need this to be a happy(ish) story, stop reading now; don't go on to the next chapter.** I say "ish" because can we really say that anyone in this story is happy?
> 
> I think I noted last chapter that this fic was not supposed to be about Andromeda, but I couldn’t get very far in a world where Bellatrix’ experience wasn’t heavily affected by – if not dominated by – her. I think most of us agree that Andromeda is the unsung hero of the HP world, but that conclusion might rest too much on the idea that she was relieved/righteous/better off for leaving the Black family to jo the “Good Side.” I also couldn’t get very far in a world where she could successfully compartmentalize her life and her two families separately, but resolution of the two seems next to impossible to me. She’s a better woman than I am for trying. Incidentally, I have her character sketch posted as "Something Wicked and Wonderful" also here on ao3.
> 
> The last three chapters will come quickly.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	21. The Words Pile Up: "Greatness" and "Goodness"

When the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black began to fall, it fell hard and fast. In retrospect, everyone thought they should have seen it coming, and months went by where the majority of the conversation on Leaky Cauldron barstools was gossip about the family. Conspiracy theories proliferated, which amused the masses for a while, but most people turned melancholy – even if they wouldn’t admit it – when they had to face the fact that almost everything they thought they knew about the Black family was rumor or lie. Very rarely could they tell the difference. Wizarding Britain had long loved the Black family for its grandeur, its scandal, and the way every witch or wizard could live vicariously through them. They drank in every word about their downfall the same way they had consumed the rise of the new Black empire and the family’s involvement with Voldemort before that. The House of Black was to them what it had always been: terrible and titillating. They delighted in its fall no less and no more than they had in its vibrancy.

Harry and Ginny were found dead in Grimmauld Place on a Monday when Fred Weasley decided to play them a prank visit in the middle of the night. He slid in through the floo, and there they were in front of the fire, reclining angelically in their armchairs, absolutely pulseless. Autopsies revealed high blood levels of ashwinder extract and deadlyius, which were both rare if not extant in wizarding Britain. An obscure apothecary in northern Scotland was found that kept them both in stock. The business was technically owned by Malfoy Apothecaries so naturally there was an aggressive investigation into Draco. Draco, who had become close with Harry in the last year, suffered doubly from the loss of his friend and the relentless news articles dredging up his days as a Death Eater and his schoolboy feud with the three war heroes. Hoards of fickle protesters gathered outside Malfoy Manor for days, hollering rants about his guilt, then his wealth, then his pureblood privilege. Draco bore his second Wizengamot trial in less than five years without support. No family or friends were allowed in the courtroom, and Andromeda was barred from participating. Still, he was acquitted quickly. The next day, however, angry crowds who needed someone to suffer for the death of the wizarding world’s savior captured him on his way home from work and beat him to death in the street.

Narcissa retreated from public eye. Hermione wondered more than once if the hate the blonde woman once expressed toward muggleborns was now directed at the general wizarding population: ungrateful sheep who squandered their magic on rumors and kitsch. Bellatrix implied Narcissa was still carrying on various business negotiations, but they only ever met with Andromeda after that. The middle sister, too, was subdued and let tears slip when she thought no one was watching. Hermione was usually watching, and she could feel it even when she wasn’t. The woman brought her grandson with her to the Black Manor frequently and would catch him up on a whim in long hugs until he squirmed away laughing. It would have been cute if sadness weren’t suffocating them.

Hermione read night and day about the toxicity of the substances in her friends’ bodies, trying to work backwards from them through complex alterations and equations to known potions. She was plagued by the thought that her work, or at least her research, could somehow have contributed to their deaths. An ignored stockpile of guilt swelled in her subconscious. 

The Black sisters taught her to be delicate during that time. She had a sense now that, for all her dazzling anguish, Andromeda could not break. The woman had an endless, steel capacity for pain and suffering. Though she could and did sometimes erupt with molten danger, it was due to the seismic shifting of the magic deep inside her and not because she was filled to her limit. Bellatrix, on the other hand, turbulent and flagrant woman that she was, was the earth that rolled and cracked when Andromeda’s tectonic magic rumbled and on which her lava settled. Hermione did not so much as tiptoe around them as she did drink them in quietly to not disturb their unending process. Now that she could see it, she thought it was a wonder that she had thus far remained a stable structure amidst them. She supposed she now had truly committed herself to them, perhaps all the way to the end.

**

“I think we should take a break,” Bellatrix said one day. She leaned far back in her chair and rubbed her eyes.

Andromeda sighed at the clock on the wall. “Sure. Maybe we come back in an hour?”

“No, I mean a long one. Get away from the Manor. Out of Britain.”

Hermione looked up from her books. It felt callous to want a break right now, but she didn’t feel like any good was coming of her studious scrupulosity.

“Maybe. Later. The Wizengamot is convening for a long session tomorrow. It’ll last a week or more. Maybe you should go, though, without me.”

“Yeah, maybe.” The sisters avoided eye contact with one another. Andromeda thumbed through papers while Bellatrix inspected her hands as she rubbed them together.

“Should take Cissy.”

“She won’t go.”

“Try at least.”

Bellatrix relented and went to look for Narcissa in another wing of the house. Hermione summoned up courage to address the brooding woman still flicking through papers aimlessly.

“Maybe you could join us. After the session is over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose, Hermione. You’re both doing so well.”

“I would like it if you came. You know she would too.”

The woman sighed through a rigid jaw. “I think she – and you – would be less haunted if I weren’t there.”

“That’s not true. We’re all haunted, Andy, but it’s by ourselves – not by you. Please come.”

They were quiet for a while, each simply lingering in the other’s presence. Bellatrix returned, cutting their homeostasis short. She confirmed that Cissy had refused to go. Unaware of their conversation, she asked her middle sister point blank to come after the Wizengamot session ended. The woman agreed after much more protest. 

“Teddy is staying with my sister-in-law this week since the session hours are so long. I guess he can stay there a few days longer.” Andromeda ran a heavy hand through her long auburn waves.

“He can come too, Andy.” Bellatrix’ voice was quiet. “Not everything must be always separated.”

**

As they exited the Manor, Hermione could feel more than see Andromeda following far enough to wave at them as they left but not so close that they would speak again. Just outside the wards, Bellatrix stopped. She looked confused with her brow furrowed, lips in a thin line, and charcoal eyes darting along the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.

“Something doesn’t feel right.” Indeed, the dark witch’s shoulders hunched as though laden with an invisible burden. Several seconds slipped by before she unfroze to hurry back toward the Manor. “I’ll be right back.” 

Hermione too felt something amiss, like she had forgotten something important, so she fumbled in her bag, checking for everything she thought would be essential. The process reminded her she had yet to confront Bellatrix about the little goblin knife since she couldn’t find it in the bag even after trying to summon it with her wand. She kicked herself for the three unfinished potions for a forgotten client that landed in her hand instead. At some point she realized she was looking too hard, busying herself with concerns about the bag’s contents for far longer than she knew she needed. She was avoiding something, and as soon as she realized it, it became increasingly difficult to keep her head buried in the bag. When she finally looked up, it was just in time to see the two sisters’ faces pull apart. They were standing stock still between the gates, Bellatrix’ hands tenderly holding her sister’s face with Andromeda’s under her sister’s elbows, wind weaving their wild, wicked curls together. Bellatrix turned away abruptly with her head down and pulled her hood up as she neared Hermione. The wards clung to her as she passed through them, trailing behind her like blood swirling through water.

“Are you ok?” The younger woman asked, her eyes not on the dark witch but on the other sister. 

Andromeda staggered heavily against the Black family crest on the gate, bracing herself as against a storm. Her lips were open in a mixture of shock and a new kind of longing, and she raised one hand to cover them. She said nothing, but the wind became more tempestuous with every heave of her chest.

“Let’s go,” was the low, curt reply.

Bellatrix would not meet her eyes, so instead of seeking answers, Hermione did what had become habitual ever since becoming involved with the Blacks: she decided to stuff down her conflicted feelings about the problematic thing that had just occurred, tore her eyes away from the wild beauty of the most tormented woman she’d ever met – infinitely more tormented than the witch who spent 14 years in Azkaban plus many more in the service of the Dark Lord and whose hand now clasped her arm – and disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and bitter and sweet. You were warned about everything in the tags.
> 
> We're not done yet. Two more chapters. Expect them to come quickly.
> 
> FYI, most of the time that I spent developing Andromeda's character I was stuck on two songs: "Your Best American Girl" by Mitski and"Teeth" by 5 Seconds of Summer. They're relevant and worth a listen if you're into the woman as she appears in this story.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	22. Those Living in Darkness

Penelope Fawley found Andromeda in the Tonks residence slumped on the hallway floor halfway between her daughter’s old room and her own on the fifth day of the Wizengamot session. The court blamed Andromeda’s absence the first day of the proceedings on classic Black family arrogance. They were miffed when she didn’t show up the second day, and they were downright offended by the third. The Black family vassals were mortified on the fourth day of her absence, so on the fifth they elected the Fawley family seat to find her.

Penelope called St. Mungo’s who called Narcissa who called Bellatrix who was escorted by Hermione to the scene all before the two responding healers were able to begin their assessment. When they reported no pulse, Bellatrix and Narcissa argued loudly with them until the blonde woman hexed them out of way so she could tend to her sister. Hermione and Penelope had to wrestle them back from Andromeda’s body to keep them from being arrested by arriving aurors who were confused by the yelling, famous faces, and unfamiliar, haphazard spells. When St. Mungos’ head healer, who technically reported to Andromeda, confirmed her death, the sisters refused their grief. A stony-faced Narcissa with a trembling jaw called for an autopsy to be performed on the spot. A hesitant examiner joined the healers, and, though he was nervous to work under the gaze of the Black sisters’ throbbing magic, he executed the examination thoroughly and efficiently. When he reported no evidence of malicious injury or illness, the force from their anger knocked him over. With wild eyes and a pale face, Bellatrix called for him to repeat the procedure. He reported the same results with some trepidation, which was warranted because a spell from Narcissa’s wand – which was still pointed at the ground – cast him unceremoniously to the corner. Bellatrix insisted on another examiner, who informed them that all signs suggested death by ordinary cardiac arrest, which was unusual for Andromeda’s age, but not unheard of. The eldest Black sister screamed for another examiner and another examination, unwilling to accept that her sister’s death was ordinary. Hermione pinned the dark-haired woman’s arms at her side to keep her from delivering the blows she was threatening; it was a struggle to contain her flailing, forceful limbs. She finally had to stupefy her to contain the woman’s violent grief.

**

At the Black Manor, Bellatrix and Narcissa accused each other with words they didn’t mean. Their voices were loud enough to hear throughout the house, even where Hermione was trying to avoid them in the library.

“Did you do it? Did you kill her?” Narcissa’s words sliced the air.

“Are you really fucking saying that to me? I should be asking you that. You’ve been pulling the strings since day one.”

“Oh, please, Bella. If anyone in this family has a proclivity for hate and murder and manipulation, it’s you,” she spat.

“Only because you became more of a Malfoy than a Black.”

“Excuse me? Who gave you the right to decide who’s good enough for the family and who isn’t? Blowing Andy off the family tree must’ve finally gone to your head. You sound like our father.”

“SHUT UP! I have spent my whole goddamn life protecting Andromeda Black from the Dark Lord, from father, and from her own bloody magic, and you fucking know that!”

“Protecting? Ha! Do you have any idea what it’s like to be your sister and to not be Andromeda? You have no idea what it’s like to deal with you two. To live with you. I’ve been protecting you both from each other since before we can remember. I’ve been holding this family together by myself since we were children!”

“Get off your high and mighty horse. You’re no martyr.”

“You should’ve let me go to Azkaban, Bella!” Narcissa’s voice was now shrill. “You shouldn’t have covered it up.”

“Would that make you feel better about yourself now? Your ‘shoulds’ and your guilt disgust me.”

“You didn’t hear yourself trying to sleep after the Dark Lord gave you back all your memories of Azkaban. It nearly killed me! You think it’s been easy for me to watch you drain away, to see you living without your magic?”

“Oh, Azkaban! Was that too much for you to see? Did you have to leave the room so you wouldn’t hear me scream like I was being tortured? Or was I croaking like a dementor was feeding on me? Or did I call out for Andy and not for you? Did it make you feel sad?” Her sarcastic bite hurt them both.

“Yes, that is exactly what happened, Bellatrix! You’re fucking half in love with her!” They had been moving down the corridor and now paused so that Hermione could just see them through the ajar door. As soon as the comment left her lips, Narcissa looked like she regretted it.

Bellatrix exploded at her. “Is that the problem? Are you ashamed of me? Of her? Are we not respectable enough for you? Is she deviant? Am I vile to you? Was this whole empire game just something to cover up all the things you despise about our family?” 

Narcissa winced. “No! That’s not how it is! I don’t know how to handle this, Bella; I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that happened, whether I did it or not. Everything was all bound up together. It still is.”

Bellatrix let out a furious screech and put her head in her hands. “Of course, it is, of course! I know that as well as you do. But maybe it’s time to untangle it and finally call it what it is.”

“We tried. There’s nothing to say; there’s no sense to make of it. There’s no meaning in this. She shouldn’t be dead. My son shouldn’t be dead. You shouldn’t have wasted away in Azkaban. None of it should be like this!”

“You make it sound like it all happened to us. We did it all, Cissy. We did it!” Bellatrix’ hands were gesturing aggressively. “Father invited the Dark Lord into our family because he wanted him there. You cared for the Dark Lord and his followers in your own home! And Andy left because she was afraid - afraid of our magic, of what she could do with it, of who she was. I don’t even blame her anymore. I chose to go to Azkaban, and it’s not like I didn’t deserve it given all the other things I’ve done! I tortured, and I killed, and I let myself be controlled! I had the power to resist, and most of the time I didn’t! We’re all to blame, but I could have stopped it early on - and I didn’t even try.”

“This isn’t about you, Bella!”

“You’re right. It never has been. It has _always_ been about Andromeda. Everything. For both of us – not just me. And now she’s gone. Really gone. We destroyed ourselves the first time she left. What now, Cissy? What’ll become of us now?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Desperation ballooned in the younger sister’s voice.

“It is what I meant. I’m getting out of here.”

“Wait! Please, wait!”

Hermione joined Narcissa in the corridor in time to see Bellatrix storming out of sight and resisted the urge to summon her back. 

Narcissa turned stoic despite the tears gathering at the bottom of her chin. “Why’re you here, Hermione?”

“What?”

“Why have you been here this whole time? You haven’t done any business with us. You don’t have any plans to do so. And don’t say you love my sister. Neither I nor anyone else would believe you.”

“Andromeda did.”

“Andromeda had all sorts of strange notions about love.”

“You all do.”

Narcissa looked at her sharply. “Pureblood magic and relationships are horrors we can’t escape. Being a voyeur to them doesn’t suit you, and that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”

“You haven’t asked me to leave.”

“I haven’t felt the need to. And I’m not sure either one of them would’ve let me anyway.”

“Do you still look down on me because I’m a muggleborn?”

“A bold thing to ask a pureblood woman in her own house.” The blonde woman sniffed. “No, of course not. That was always ludicrous. But our position, our family, our history, the way we’ve habitualized our magic - it all means that we will always look like dark witches and wizards to you. And to ourselves, honestly. It was so much easier to not have to prove otherwise. Easier to invent blood status as a reason to let our magic be dark. Now we have no excuse and look where that’s getting us.”

Hermione had nothing to say. The Blacks _were_ dark witches to her. At first, she thought she was getting to know the good in Bellatrix, that the woman had changed her ways for the better, that the bad in her was a result of her circumstances not of her innate characteristics - but now those hopes felt like platitudes to her, nuances she had made up to make herself feel better about loving the woman. _The witch makes the magic dark._ Bellatrix was someone who wanted her magic to be dark. Andromeda was afraid of the dark magic that came so naturally to her. Narcissa accepted the magic as it was, but even acceptance had not freed the magic from their corruption of it. 

Hermione grimaced at the memory of the type of spells she had cast in battle. She remembered Harry’s feral “crucio’s” screamed at Bellatrix in the Department of Mysteries. She thought of her own parents – the happiest part of their life removed from them without their permission, for a reason they never knew, to assuage her own guilt and to serve a greater good that did not turn out to be entirely good. She remembered keeping the suspicious information about the horcruxes to herself and thought about all the potions she altered for more than dubious purposes. She decided not to point out to the blonde witch that perhaps she took too much satisfaction in erroneously imagining that purebloods bore the unique burden of having to confront their own magic. Though undeniable, the sheer power of Andromeda and her sisters, their proclivity for darkness, and even their story, was not what ultimately made them remarkable. What set the House of Black apart from everyone else, including the rest of the old families, was their awareness of and willingness to articulate their losing battle to be tragic. It was indeed a horror to have been privy to, a horror she couldn’t look away from.

Offering a small nod of deference to youngest Black sister, she said, “I’ll go look for her.”

**

Hermione found Bellatrix on her way to the Great Hall floo. The woman was clad in her usual black uniform and was pulling a cigarette from her pocket when their paths intersected. Hermione frowned; she hadn’t seen the dark witch smoking since their frivolous days in the muggle fishing town.

“I thought that was only for effect.”

“Some effect.”

Hermione stepped closer and wrapped her arms around the woman who remained rigid until she began to speak. “Bella, I love you.” 

The dark witch lowered her head onto Hermione’s shoulder and began to quake. She dropped the cigarette to curl her arms around the young woman’s back and clench at her shoulders. 

“I’m sorry that this has happened. All of this.” Dark curls trembled violently at Hermione’s words. “I know I don’t know what it’s like, but I know what it’s like watching you hurt. And I hate it.” Bellatrix was sobbing now. “You shouldn’t have to hurt so much.”

“I must deserve it,” came the words between sobs.

“Deserving is nothing. No one deserves anything, good or bad.”

They remained embracing for a long time until Bellatrix disentangled herself, stood up straight, and wiped her face of tears. She sighed. “I need to get out of here for a little bit.”

“Ok. Do you want company, or would you rather be alone?”

“I would like your company.” 

Hermione warmed at the comment. “Where are you going?”

“There’s a bar not too many streets from King’s Cross, owned by a shit wizard. Abhors wizarding politics so he puts up wards to keep people from apparating in and out. Mostly keeps everyone but muggles away. Easy to go unnoticed there. I used to go to right before and after Azkaban when I was trying to get laid.”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know the place, but you continue to astound me. Before and after Azkaban? Like while you were working for the Dark Lord?”

“Well,” she shrugged.

They shared a sheepish chuckle, feeling guilty about their ability to do so, and stepped into the floo calling for Diagon Alley. Then they took a portkey to platform 9 ¾ where they exited into muggle London. It was true, Hermione did not recognize the bar, but she knew she had to have walked past it dozens of times. On the second floor inside, they found a booth near the head of the bar that all but filled the long, narrow room. Bellatrix ordered one bottle of red wine and one of an American bourbon - “for options,” she said. 

They sat in silence. Even though their light-hearted banter about Bellatrix’ amorous escapades gave the impression of ease, neither of them were comfortable. Hermione willed the woman’s fingers to trace the edge of her glass as she had at the muggle bar back when they were merely curious strangers to one another; they didn’t. Instead they were wrapped around the glass, which was planted firmly on the table in front of her, overflowing with the woman’s forlorn, charcoal gaze.

One of the many times Hermione shifted in the booth, she started to say, “Bella, I don’t really know – “

“Don’t. No one does.” The brooding dark witch interrupted.

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“I didn’t have to.”

There were so many things that Hermione didn’t understand about the older witch, and she had accepted most of them even when they were clearly problematic. She wondered if all the extra room she had made in her convictions about good and evil for Bellatrix’ nuances was for her own benefit, instead of Bellatrix’. Perhaps she was nuancing the woman out of existence and into little shards of personhood splintered a thousand times over, disregarding who she really was. The dark-haired witch’s own magic put her together the first time she shattered. Her sisters put her together the second. Could it continue this way?

The young woman did not differentiate well between acknowledging nuance and giving grace. By inviting Bellatrix into her bar, her home, and her body repeatedly, she had given the woman grace that she had taken away from the wizarding world after the war. She suspected this is what Andromeda had done as well. In that way, Bellatrix had given Hermione and Andromeda the same gift: a way to be gracious when they could not be gracious with themselves or the ones they otherwise loved. This dark witch was the means by which they let themselves be good. Their goodness bloomed in the shower of her falling, fragmented nuances.

A tense hand wrapped around her wrist, rousing Hermione from her thoughts. “Don’t move yet, but someone’s here for us.”

The sound in the dark witch’s voice, though not distinctly fearful, alarmed Hermione because it was so unfamiliar. “Who?” She let out a hoarse whisper. 

“I don’t know. See the two at the bar shoulder to shoulder? They just cased us on the way in. Those two women in the booth to the right have their wands already on the table. Four at the far end of the big table on either side of it. Maybe a few more in the other booths judging by the way the others keep looking that direction.”

Hermione began to panic. “Are you sure they’re here for us? It could be anyone.”

“It’s not. They’re here for us – for me. They always are.” Bellatrix’ eyes continued to rove around the room. The rest of her didn’t move an inch, so neither did Hermione. “I can’t tell who they are. I haven’t seen the women before, and the others are too far away. They’re waiting for something – some sort of signal.”

“A signal? What do we do?” Hermione clenched Bellatrix’ hand.

“You’re going to get out.” With her other hand, the eldest Black sister began to pour the remaining wine into their glasses without averting her eyes.

Hermione felt her panic sink into her stomach to form a pit of dread. “We both need to get out.”

“Listen to me, Hermione.” The woman briefly moved her eyes to take in the young woman. “You are going to run. The hallway to the right goes downstairs to the emergency exit. Once you pass the doorframe on the ground level, you’ll be out of the wards and you have to disapparate immediately.”

“You have to come with me!” She was dizzy with déjà vu; Malfoy Manor flickered around her until Bellatrix pulled her in for a long, uncharacteristically chaste kiss.

“Promise me you’ll go, Hermione.” Their foreheads rested together. “Promise me, damn it.”

Then the first spell ricocheted above their heads. Hermione ducked as her magic rose unbidden to shimmer around her. Bellatrix, however, stood to her feet as the second spell landed on the table, leaving a smoking bubble in the wood. She grabbed the wine bottle by neck and, to Hermione’s utter disbelief, pulled a pistol from her waistband under her jacket. Everything slowed down for Hermione after that.

“Go! Run!” 

The dark witch gestured wildly with the bottle, somehow dodging another spell that sliced between her ear and shoulder. She whirled the pistol around and fired at the other end of the room while smashing the bottle down on the head of one of the woman whose wand was extended in her face. A small spiral of a spell died at the tip of the wand as the woman crashed to the floor unmoving. More crackling pops left the pistol’s barrel as Bellatrix thrust the broken end of the bottle up into the neck of the other woman.

“Get out of here!” The dark witch’s cry rang out again, but Hermione couldn’t move. 

Spells continued to either be absorbed and neutralized in the wall of her magic or bounce off harmlessly. She almost licked her lips as Bellatrix drew an impossible, second pistol from her waistband and leapt onto the long table. Like a well-rehearsed action movie, the dark witch advanced forward down the table with her arms outstretched, firing at her opponents who ducked behind chairs and screaming customers to protect themselves. She moved in all her legendary glory: unconcerned about protecting herself, curls billowing behind her as she twirled to fire in new directions and dodge spells. A delighted smile baring her teeth accompanied that old maniacal laughter while she pranced across the table. Hermione was consumed by the thought that this was the most authentic she had ever seen Bellatrix - her soul lit on fire by battle, the blood and screams of her falling opponents watering her sense of wholeness. The woman she loved was unencumbered for the first time since they’d met. 

When the first spell hit the dark witch in the leg, she barely registered it. The second and third hit her in the chest and abdomen respectively, but she continued forward reeling and wielding her weapons. The force of another in her shoulder, neck, and head spun her around. Her feral eyes fell on the young witch still frozen in the seat behind their abandoned drinks with her magic pumping around her. 

“What are you doing? Go! Get out! Go!” 

Then another spell in the dark witch’s back forced her to her knees. She rocked back on her heels, looking almost comfortable. An unsettling smile descended on her despite a thick streak forming from an open wound under her right ear steadily draining blood down her neck and soaking her shirt. For a moment, Hermione was in back in Grimmauld Place, staring at the portrait of Ashlys Black.

Then, like a coward, Hermione Granger, the famous war hero who was surrounded by a shield of her own raw magic and who was powerful enough to obliterate her own existence from her former life with a single spell, turned away from her lover kneeling in her own blood, bereft of her family’s magic, weapons exhausted of ammunition, and she fled. A man was on her heels instantly, and she knew before she made it to the stairs that she wouldn’t be able to outrun him. A string of spells she sent wordlessly behind her were deflected too easily to consider turning to fight him. In the stairwell, there was a large window with milky cracks snaking through it. Using the last of her strength she leapt from the bottom step and crashed through the window. The man’s lunging fingers barely grazed her pant leg before she cleared the window frame and disapparated mid-air.

She was a coward. Then there was the bus. And then there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it goes. There is one more chapter yet, folks.
> 
> I never said it was a happy story, but now there's only one chapter left. If you've read this far, you might as well stick around through tomorrow.
> 
> Seriously, though, thanks for reading thus far. Your comments are wonderful to me.
> 
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


	23. Have Seen a Great Light

Detective Wright pursed his lips in a frown as the officers corralled the crowd away from scene. The request for his presence had been accompanied by order to block off the entire area within one block of the intersection in each direction for the rest of the day and overnight. The accident didn’t warrant that in his opinion. A woman, probably in her mid-20s, lay in the middle of the street, looking unremarkable even in the heinous heap of her tangled limbs. As if the indentation in her skull, her caved-in sternum, and fixed pupils didn’t convince the officers of her death, an ambulance was called so a low-level emergency response technician could confirm she had no pulse, begin CPR that was as gross as it was hopeless, and wait for physician’s orders to stop. She lay some 10 meters away from the bus that hit her and which was still stalled in the crosswalk; she had to have been hit hard. The bus driver said she appeared out of nowhere and that he’d had no time to react. She wasn’t crossing the street as he approached the intersection, and she hadn’t rushed out from the sidewalk. She literally appeared out of thin air. These were all pretty standard statements for drivers who hit and killed pedestrians.

Wright was called because the officers reporting the accident said something about explosives. One had been nearby, exiting a coffee shop with a hot drink just in time to see the collision. The woman was thrown up in the air with her head whiplashed in an unnatural position. She seemed to hang in flight, and a disk of crystal blue light exploded from her and passed violently across the whole square. People were knocked over and scrambled for shelter as all the windows facing the intersection shattered. Her body then crashed to the ground unmoving, and the crowd’s panic quickly morphed into fascination.

Before arriving on scene, Wright assumed they were exaggerating. When questioned, the officer who saw it revealed he was on the tail end of a busy 24-hour shift, and none of the people in the intersection could fully describe the sequence of events. All signs would have pointed to a run-of-the-mill suicide, except that all the windows were indeed blown out and shards of glass littered the sidewalks. Even this failed to rouse him as he watched the ogling crowd swell and dwindle. Even the long stick sheathed in her sleeve, the unidentifiable currency in her pocket, and her lack of identification did little to pique his interest. Things like this were more common than the public believed, and he knew they would forget the event quickly. They always did. There were no leads to follow up on regarding the broken windows, and few months of half-hearted investigation yielded no clues about the woman. He closed the case without fanfare shortly thereafter.

**

_“I’m pregnant.” Andromeda’s timid voice interrupted the sisters’ banter over tea. Spoons ceased clinking against their mugs._

_“Your jokes aren’t funny.” Bellatrix tried to sound annoyed but wouldn’t lift her gaze from her tea._

_“I’m not joking. I found out two weeks ago.” More silence. Narcissa, normally so composed, squirmed in her seat. “Ted and I are engaged.”_

_“Oh my god, Andy.” Bellatrix now pressed her fingers into the middle of her forehead._

_“The wedding will be soon so that mother and father can’t – “_

_“You won’t. You know this can’t happen.” Narcissa was irritated._

_“I can, and I will.”_

_“Andy, this is madness.” Bella finally looked at her middle sister with a desperate concern._

_“It’s madness to put up with Father’s shit about pureblood supremacy. It’s madness to suffer Riddle’s presence and the lies he’s feeding us.”_

_“Father won’t let you. He will make it miserable for you, and for us too, I bet.” The blonde girl, just finished with her fifth year at Hogwarts, felt a fear that was not yet routine for her but would become so in a short time. “He might do anything to you.”_

_“I can handle him.”_

_“He might kill you.”_

_“He’s not that far gone.”_

_“He is, though. Andy, please don’t do this.” Their oldest sister was begging, something Narcissa had never seen her do. “This will change everything. There’s no going back if you do.”_

_“I don’t want to go back, Bella.”_

_The dark-haired young woman flinched as if she’d been slapped. “Just wait. Just think a little more about it before you do something you can’t undo. Please. For us. For me.”_

_Andromeda gazed at her older sister with an emotion that Narcissa couldn’t place._

The blonde woman tossed in her sleep, unconsciously reaching for the glass of water by her bed. She was burning with shivers.

_Father was standing with the newly self-styled Dark Lord at the end of the conference table in Grimmauld Place. Their heads were together, framed by the tapestry of the family tree. His wife, sister, and brother-in-law sat near them wearing ugly, smug satisfaction. Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa were all seated at the other end of the table, bored but on edge. They were always on edge in Grimmauld Place. Bellatrix said it was because she could see the magic circling between Andromeda and its walls; Narcissa couldn’t see it but noted that her middle sister always ground her teeth when visiting the house, a habit she didn’t exhibit elsewhere._

_“Andromeda, come here.” Their father’s voice boomed._

_Their middle sister stood hesitantly and made her way around the table, stopping a little too far away from him to be considered obedient. “Yes, father?”_

_“Lord Voldemort and I have made an important arrangement that will be strategic for the family’s power status and for our cause.” He paused for effect. “You will marry Alaric Selwyn at the end of the summer.”_

_Druella and Walburga looked particularly pleased. The Dark Lord peered at the auburn-haired young woman closely. Her jaw clenched and unclenched, her lips forming words that did not come out. Narcissa and Bellatrix coiled their muscles with the greatest hope of their lives – that she would not protest. But Andromeda did not show any sign acquiescing._

_“Bella, she’s going to ruin it.” Narcissa whispered._

_“No, she won’t. She’s ok.” Her oldest sister did not look as confident as her words sounded._

_“Bella, it’s happening.”_

_“No, it’s not.” The dark-haired witch’s denial was palpable._

_Andromeda took a deep breath before blurting out, “I can’t!” A collective sucking in of breath passed around the room. “I’m engaged.”_

_Narcissa clenched her eldest sister’s forearm in fear and desperation, and Bellatrix went pale._

_It was Walburga who asked it. “Engaged? To whom exactly, dear niece?”_

_“Edward Tonks. From school.” It was the most confident she ever remembered her sister sounding._

_“Tonks. I don’t know that name. Sounds like a mudblood.” Walburga snapped her head toward the sisters. “Narcissa. Is Tonks a mudblood?”_

_She swallowed and nodded, her fingernails digging into Bellatrix’ skin._

_Spittle sprinkled the shocked faces of the family members near their father when he roared. "You! You! Good for nothing cunt. Druella, deal with him at once.”_

_“I’m going to marry him. I’m pregnant.”_

_“Fucking cunt whoring yourself out to a mudblood! You continue to be a waste of Black blood. No more.” He withdrew his wand._

_Narcissa began to panic. “Bella, he’s going to kill her!”_

_Andromeda raised her wand to block a curse as she stumbled backward. Another curse and another. The other occupants of the room began ducking to avoid stray unforgivables._

_“Bella, you have to do something! He’s going to kill her!” Indeed, there were now killing curses punctuating the air._

_Andromeda was almost to the door, ragged with cursed wounds, when Bellatrix threw her chair back and leapt onto the table, intercepting the spells in flight and sucking them into the tip of her wand. She slashed her wand at her father, slamming his body like a ragdoll into the tapestry behind him where he slumped bleeding from the back of the head. Then she turned toward Andromeda and with no hesitation cast a bombarda maxima that propelled her out of the room and exploded the stone wall into flying chunks that barricaded the door with rubble. At first, Narcissa thought she heard screaming, but a chill descended on her when she realized it was her dark-haired sister_ laughing _as she hexed everyone in the room who drew their wands against her. Plates and family heirloom wine glasses shattered against the floor, chairs, flesh, and portraits whose occupants ducked for cover. When Bellatrix reached the tapestry, she wound up her arm and delivered an incendio at Andromeda’s name; the auburn-haired sister’s ever-stunning portrait went up in flames that left a black mark on the ceiling._

_The dark witch hoisted their father up by the hair to look at her handiwork. “No need to kill her, father. She’s not even part of the family.”_

_When she dropped him, his mouth smeared the tapestry with blood. Facing the rest of the room’s dumbfounded occupants, she wiped her hand on the old tablecloth and giggled._

Narcissa tossed again in her lonely bed in the empty Black Manor, not yet aware of her company.

_Against her better judgment, she followed her eldest sister to the room where their mother said Dark Lord was waiting for her. If Bellatrix knew she was being followed, she gave no indication. She wore an impassible face that Narcissa felt herself mimicking as she settled into shadows just outside the strip of light allowed by a door neither her sister nor the Dark Lord closed._

_“Bellatrixxx….” His voice hissed. “I’m delighted you’ve come.”_

_“Mother said you wanted to see me.” Bellatrix was facing the door so Narcissa could see that she still betrayed no emotion._

_“You resent me.” Apparently, the Dark Lord saw more than she did, though she wasn’t surprised at the assessment._

_“I don’t,” was the curt reply._

_A chuckle bubbled from his throat, but Narcissa had a feeling that his face did not match the sound. “I find you inspiring, Bella.” She recoiled at his use of her nickname, but Bellatrix still did not react._

_He continued. “Your ardor for your family’s honor the other day in the tapestry room was the most impressive display of character and power that I have seen in years. Anyone who could garner your support would be far better for it, and woe to anyone whom you make your enemy.”_

_“Is that what you’re asking for? My support?”_

_“Your allegiance, Bella. You are the primary heir to arguably the most formidable lineage in Europe.”_

_“My father has already made his loyalties clear.”_

_“Your father is an idiot!” The Dark Lord shouted. Both sisters jumped, Bellatrix’ impassivity broken. “I want_ you. _You are the perfect heir to the Black family magic. You are the strongest witch or wizard in the family in centuries.”_

_“That’s not true.”_

_Narcissa could see a long-fingered hand waving dismissively at her sister. “Yes, I know about Andromeda. But she wants to be weak, so she_ is _weak. She will never be as strong as you, because as a person, you are unmatched in dominance and control, and you take pleasure in who you are.”_

_“Your cause does not attract me.”_

_“It doesn’t have to. You thrive in battle. You exude bloodlust. You came alive in the tapestry room in a way you don’t in other situations. You don’t have to care about the cause, but I can give you a world where you can come alive like that every day.”_

_“That doesn’t change anything.” Bellatrix sounded tough, but her high chin began to droop. Narcissa knew she was starting to crack. So did the Dark Lord._

_His magic boomed out from him like a tidal wave, forcing Bellatrix to her knees. “Bella, I don’t want to have to force you. I would much rather make a deal with you. It’s really beside the point, but mudbloods and blood traitors are going to have to die for us to have our way – especially ones that have tainted the magic of the Sacred 28. Really, Andromeda and her new family should be at the very top of the list, but I would be willing to make an exception if you were the first to swear your allegiance to me. I’d even be willing to grant her my protection.”_

_The woman’s shoulders and neck slumped forward. She was quiet a long while before she spoke. “If you make the unbreakable vow - “_

_“Perfect.” He did not let her finish. “Narcissa! Would you please come in and do the honors?”_

_Embarrassed and afraid, she did as she was asked. She willed Bellatrix to look at her, but her sister hid behind the dark ringlets cascading around her shoulders._

_“Your arm, please.” The Dark Lord turned the witch’s wrist and pressed the glowing tip of his wand forcefully into her forearm’s soft flesh. The pain made Bellatrix try to jerk away, but he kept a firm grip on her until the boiling ink spreading from his wand sank into her skin and began to cool._

_Narcissa felt tears on her face as her beautiful, unbending sister let her arm fall unheeded to her side, marred by the very first dark mark tattoo still belching steam into the air._

Narcissa woke with a start. She blinked several times at the ceiling, trying to let the memories dissipate into the air. 

“I know you’re here,” she said aloud.

“I figured as much. You’ve always been perceptive.”

“You’re late.”

“A few minutes early, actually, but let’s not split hairs.”

The blonde woman didn’t look around to locate the voice. “Was it always going to happen like this? Were we going to end up like this no matter what?”

Death let out a gentle sigh. “Who do you mean by ‘we’? The Black family? You and your sisters? The people you loved?”

“I don’t know.” She paused. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I find the Fates rather untrustworthy, so I try not to know their opinion on anything.”

Another pause. “Did my sisters hurt when you took them?”

“It hurt me, if that helps.”

She stuffed down a hundred more things she wanted to ask. “I suppose it’s time.”

“I suppose so.” 

Death stepped out of the shadows and offered an arm to help Narcissa Black Malfoy to her feet. Then the last pureblood descendant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black raised her chin, steeled her blue eyes, and let Death wrap his cloak around her.

**

When Edward Tonks II entered the Wizengamot on his 17th birthday, over half of those in attendance rose to their feet and stood at attention until he rested his back against the Black family crest and nodded for the Chief Warlock to continue the proceedings. The Black, Lestrange, Malfoy, Potter, Lupin, and Weasley estates were joined by the Greengrass inheritance as properties under Tonks’ direct ownership, followed by more in his later years. He visited the Black Manor exactly once to place it and Grimmauld Place under the care of the family’s elves indefinitely. While he was there, he placed a portrait of his mother over the mantle, only staying long enough to let the golden mist the Manor suddenly poured forth make his skin and hair slick. He never returned.

When he died, the muggleborn wizard who married his daughter took her last name and gave the family a reputation for heavy-handed business negotiations; they lived in muggle London and commuted daily to the Ministry to mediate business deals that straddled the public and private sectors of Wizarding Britain.

Their twin sons invested heavily in muggle artificial intelligence but elected to pass the Wizengamot seat and primary inheritance to their younger brother. He became the leading benefactor of all the major wizarding schools and muggle universities in northern Europe in exchange for special sway over their educational content.

His only daughter pioneered mass production of a variety of enchanted muggle weaponry, using the revenue to turn the Black Manor into a university equivalent to Hogwarts for muggleborns whose magic wasn’t identified until adulthood. She also endowed the largest initiative to date to improve and inform wizarding Britain with the latest and continuous advancements in muggle scientific research and its implications for manipulating magic.

Her oldest child was the first to venture back into Grimmauld Place, and they were so fascinated by the endlessly curious and powerful items found in the building that they established a private equivalent to the Department of Mysteries. Although the artefact division of the program would grow to an international scope and include mysteries from as far away as the southernmost tip of the Americas, the very first catalogued item was a tattered shred of crispy canvas found in the dark recesses of Grimmauld Place. It contained wrinkled ink depicting the legendary Death Eater Dark Mark – probably the only original from the Second Wizarding War still in existence. Graffitied Dark Marks still cropped up every now and then, but for the most part no one took the symbol seriously anymore, which is of course why the piece was so fascinating. Another notable piece was anonymous donation to the corporation: a weathered muggle icon of a beautiful, auburn-haired woman cupping a handful of purple and yellow stars. It was entitled “St. Andrea,” and on the back was scribbled _“those living in darkness have seen a great light._ ” No one ever confirmed its magical properties, but the icon’s ability to pierce viewers in the intersection of their materiality and immateriality secured its place in the exhibit for a long time.

They named their three daughters after the Fates, whom they assumed were depicted in one of the family heirloom portraits of a brown-haired woman with blazing eyes flanked intimately by two other women, one with black hair and one blonde. The elves at Grimmauld Place had been overly protective of the portrait, but the only one who seemed to know anything about it was too old and weak to communicate. The oldest daughter disappeared in her early 30s and was never heard from again; the middle daughter filled her Wizengamot seat and was appointed Chief Warlock. The youngest ran an international syndicate of wealthy muggles that became the family’s most lucrative investment after that.

Otherwise, the family operated out of the public eye most of the time, rarely causing media stir. None of the Black family vassals ever challenged the issue of their position with the Tonks’, though Gringotts continued to execute the families’ financial actions under the old vassalage constraints and the Tonks’ always garnered uncommon support in surreptitious conflicts or clandestine negotiations. There came a time when no one spoke of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black anymore outside of drunken oral folklore and dusty accounts of wizarding war history. The idea of ancient, pureblood family magic became widely regarded as archaic fantasy invented by people with insufficient scientific knowledge to explain natural phenomena and to make them feel better about themselves. This belief, of course, did not change the fact that the Tonks’ social, political, and magical power remained undeniable even as it grew to be unacknowledged. Their presence was inescapable in every tiny strand of the wizarding world, so much so that it became more taken for granted than the existence of wizarding Britain itself. Eventually, the only ones who continued to be consciously perplexed by the Tonks’ were the healers who performed the family’s final medical examinations upon their deaths. With each family member that passed, the examiner added the same notation to the family medical record as the last: 

_“Large tattoo across top third of patient’s chest in ornate script reads **‘Toujours Pur.** ’”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And are we readers and authors not the masses?
> 
> If you’re reading this, thank you for sticking with me all the way through to the end. I know not every fic is for everybody, and I’m aware that an author’s predispositions, hang-ups, and fantasies really drive the experience of their story. Thanks for putting up with me. 😊 You’ve all been great company.
> 
> If you liked Andromeda Tonks in this story, head on over to my other fic, "Something Wicked and Wonderful." It's her character sketch. A little choppy and a little sadboi and pretty gratifying.
> 
> If you are so willing, please give this story a bump wherever you talk about fan fiction. If you hated it and me, that's ok; flame on.
> 
> **
> 
> Note on the chapter titles: Most of these are taken almost directly from James W. Perkinson’s book _White Theology: Outing Supremacy in Modernity_. 
> 
> **  
> stay well, friends.
> 
> as always:  
> **never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just lucky to get to play in it.**


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